


Bright Lights, Black Leather

by lezzerlee



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Big Bang Challenge, Dom/sub, Edgeplay, Fingerfucking, Gloves, Inception Big Bang Challenge, Leather Kink, M/M, NSFW Art, Orgasm Delay/Denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-02
Updated: 2012-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-30 09:54:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lezzerlee/pseuds/lezzerlee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames has been attracted to Arthur for a long time now, though their relationship has always remained professional. When the point man for a job Eames is on is removed for his incompetence, Eames calls Arthur, collecting on a favor. He expects the job to be like any of the others they've worked together. But when Arthur arrives, looking healthier now that he's not tagging along with Cobb, Eames' desire is rekindled.</p><p>Then one day, Arthur shows up wearing leather gloves and Eames finds that he can't think of anything else. He's never had a fetish for leather before, or a fetish for anything before for that matter, but something about the way Arthur wears and treats his gloves stirs something inside Eames. Fighting with his desire, Eames starts to pick fights. When Arthur calls him on his behavior, Eames is expecting a lecture, or some yelling. He does not expect Arthur to proposition him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bright Lights, Black Leather

**Author's Note:**

> The beautiful artwork by [xarenna](http://xarenna.livejournal.com) will be embedded into the story, but you can also find it at [her master post.](http://xarenna.livejournal.com/10279.html)
> 
> It is not safe for work, please be aware.

Eames gazes out at the wash of terracotta-red spread across the skyline. The rooftops disappear with the horizon, a tangle of winding streets and narrow alleys, uneven stony surfaces hidden below. The sunset burns warmth into the Italian landscape, pink and orange chroma dancing overhead like fire. The color contradicts the air, which holds a chill. It’s late autumn, October, nearly time for the temperature to drop even further and the rain to come. The evenings foretell a cold winter, but the days are still sunny, if cool, and the leaves are golden and yellow, complimenting the earthy tones of the ancient city.  
  
Eames has been here for three weeks, lazily tailing a mark as the man sips espresso from dainty cups in bustling cafes, meets with business partners over expensive dinners, or attends the opera and theatre with his wife. In all, it’s one of the more luxurious jobs he’s ever accepted, indulging in the finery of Italian culture day by day. The mark doesn't have his own personal security to dodge so Eames can get close, not having to hide in a cramped car full of takeaway boxes and empty cups. Eames finds it dreadful, is bored out of his mind, more so than on any other, and that's including numerous long cons and tedious undercover work in his past. It doesn't help that this is his first job back in dream share since the successful inception of Robert Fischer. Eames can't help but compare. Even with the amount of wealth that Saito had brought to the Fischer job, and though Saito could easily have bought them an entire city block to work from, they had still been tucked away in a massive warehouse, full of the beloved tools of his trade. After weeks of tailing Browning, whose personal life was equally as boring as his current mark, Eames was pleasantly surprised to join up with the team in a long-abandoned printing facility. Whenever he wasn’t practicing his forgery, he delighted in exploring the corners of the place, pulling out the discarded letters, enjoying the sharp edges and soft grit of the lead. He found it meditative to perfect the balance of the furniture when locking up type. Winding the tension just right, sliding in the copper plates to separate the type. Eames loved the smell of the machines, faint hints of ink and mineral oil leftover on the rollers. Too bad the remaining presses were not in working order, some of them missing parts, some jammed from years of disuse. With all of his effort and time tinkering with the gears, he couldn’t fix them.  
  
Eames longs for that warehouse now. They’re working from a small and inexpensive two bedrooms flat, which is nice as it has beds, complete with outdated, thread-worn and scratchy comforters, and a slightly overstuffed couch to sleep on while testing levels. It also has a small kitchen to use when needed, though old habits from life on the move die hard and the team usually orders takeaway. The setting is ultimately abhorrently dull. There’s not enough room for him to set up a forging station, the only desk already claimed by files and surveillance photos and paperwork. He’s not about to set up on the floor of the second bedroom; he’s not bored enough to suffer through the knot in his shoulders and neck working from a crouch would give him. Eames is also not particularly fond of the idea of revealing that skill-set to this particular team, though he could use a few new identities, so he resorts to finding backroom card games and pickpocketing oblivious tourists in order to keep himself entertained. It feels, somewhat, as if he’s twenty-four again, fresh from abandoning the military, stripped of burden of his uniform and on the run in the most romantic country he could think of. Though, with his own money padding his wallet and a reliable place to sleep at night this time around.  
  
The worst part of this job is their point man. He’s a thin, dark-haired, slip of a man in a suit a size too large, who reminds Eames of another point, but only because this one is completely unlike him. He is an utter tosser who can’t find his way out of a paper bag, let alone find useful information on the mark or the mark’s acquaintances. Ricardo is young, too young, and not brilliant in the way many people he knows started out early in this trade were. He’s hot tempered with a know-it-all attitude, which is infuriating since he, in fact, seems to know very little. Eames has worked with the extractor, Colin, before and respects him, but he may never again if this is the type of help Colin hires. To be fair, Colin seems to nearly pull out fist-sized tufts of his thick red hair, with a pained expression that pulls his angular features taut, whenever their point man asks an inane question about something he should already know.  
  
Eames has to subdue the compulsion to grin openly when Colin finally loses his cool and fires the point in a flurry of yelled curses, thrown papers, regrets over promising one's mother something (which explains a lot) and wild gesticulations. It’s a wonder to watch a man nearly lose himself in rage. Colin’s face flushes red, the thin blue veins on his neck bulging and spit sticking like spider web strings between his teeth. Eames folds the reaction away into the recesses of his mind where he stores observations on everyone he’s worked with, taking in the rigidness of Colin’s spine and the way he squares his shoulders when he crosses his arms.  
  
“Where the fuck am I going to get a point man on such short notice?” Colin fumes after their bewildered and embarrassed colleague has packed up his cheap briefcase and gone. Eames sweeps his thumbnail across his lip to restrain his smirk, watching carefully as Colin paces the room. Their architect, Elliot, a stocky bloke around forty years old with thinning salt and pepper hair and large nose, is sitting on the bed, turning the pages of a daily, and ignoring the entire situation with an air of tired resignation only a former teacher or director of human resources can acquire. After letting Colin calm down a little, Eames pushes away from the wall and shoves his hands in his trouser pockets, searching for the poker chip he carries to keep his hands busy.  
  
“It may be possible for me to secure us someone,” he says, head ducked low to belie a sense of casual earnestness, the hint of reluctance in his tone serves to convince Colin that he feels he has no other option but to offer. People tend to accept your opinion, or your help if you are hesitant to give it.  
  
“On this short of notice?” Colin runs a hand down the back of his own neck and glances over his shoulder skeptically, blue eyes still bright with leftover anger.  
  
“Possibly,” Eames replies, pulling his hand from his mouth and pointing a finger for emphasis. “I have a favor to call in. But it’s likely we’ll need to extend the deadline. He’s very good, but he’ll need time.” Colin takes a second to think, then nods his approval and Eames pulls on his jacket to leave the flat feeling self-satisfied and a bit smug, so long as plan works, of course.  
  
Halfway down a shaded alley, Eames makes his phone call. It is a shame to request help on a job so trivial, so mournfully uncomplicated, but if Eames is obligated to complete this contract, and likely stay for longer while their new point learns the ins and outs of what is needed, he's going to at least enjoy the company. He waits, listening to the line ring, not without some trepidation that it won’t be answered.  
  
“Arthur!” Eames greets with forced cheer, when the call connects. He tosses a quick look over his shoulder out of habit, needing to know exactly how many people are on the street with him, where his exit points are. Arthur sounds busy, or not thrilled to hear from Eames, as his greeting is clipped. Eames could call a few other point men that he’s worked with over the years, but doesn’t want to. Arthur is brilliant, talented, and best of all, Arthur owes him.  
  
Arthur also makes any job they work together automatically more interesting. He's beautiful, in his boyish, clean-cut way. Eames likes the shape of his jaw, how his nose is slightly too large and how his mouth frowns prettily whenever he is thinking. Eames is shallow enough to think that a pretty co-worker is worth hiring for the view alone.  
  
He also likes studying Arthur’s mannerisms: every nervous tic and impatient jitter, the way his jacket pulls at the shoulders, revealing the cuff of his shirtsleeve as he reaches for his coffee. He’s noticed the way Arthur’s eyes are always sharp, calculating, tearing everything apart and putting it back together in an instant, always searching for a breaking point in any situation. But Eames takes a particular delight in evoking other things from the man. He enjoys prodding Arthur, making him bend to his will just enough to get the reaction Eames wants. Arthur is full of splendid reactions.  
  
When he first met Arthur, Eames had thought of Arthur as stoic, stiff and robotic, buttoned up and unimaginative. Eames had been put off by Arthur’s cynicism, his ready skepticism. Feeling confronted at every opportunity, their first job together had almost ended in blows. They didn’t know how to handle each other then. Eames was snide. Arthur was condescending. Both of them were bull-headed and young enough to not care about inflicting and receiving physical pain if it came to it. But over time, and many jobs, Eames had come to realize that Arthur’s constant vigilance towards the job, his challenges and suspicions, has kept the teams alive and the contracts successful. He also found that Arthur is playful, quick to sarcasm, never as serious as he appears to be, though he is always professional. Eames can appreciate that. He sees Arthur as less of a condescending and hostile arsehole, and more of a friend and asset. Eames is also aware that Arthur has plenty of imagination — no successful dream worker doesn’t — though Eames will always tease him.  
  
All of this, of course, is hardly enough reason to call one of the best point men in the business in on this job. The truth of why Eames calls Arthur is that Eames finds himself wanting to be near him more than he should. Arthur has worked his way under Eames’ skin, and the idea of working with anyone else when he doesn’t have to leaves him feeling hollow and unsatisfied. A feeling that he ignored for a long time, and never let on to in their interactions.  
  
If Eames’ opinion of Arthur, on a professional level, evolved into admiration and respect, his opinion of Arthur on a personal level has grown to a slow-burning desire. That desire solidified one night years ago, on a job in Rio. The Brazilian winter was warm, too humid even for its natural rainy season, and they were flooded by daily downpours. The water leaked from the roof of their work quarters, soaking their architectural models and curling the paper edges of Arthur’s files, which were arranged carefully between catch containers across the surface of his desk. Everyone was miserable, trapped inside, and uncomfortable in their damp clothing. Their deadline had been delayed. It had been a challenging contract, much like most of the jobs he and Arthur chose to take, and they had all been burning the candle at both ends to complete it in time. With the rain and nothing to do but wait, everyone needed a day to relax, including Arthur, which is why it ultimately wasn’t so surprising that he joined the rest of the team on their drinking excursion when he would normally claim to be too busy to let loose in the middle of a job.  
  
Towards closing, and after many of the too bright and too sugary concoctions that passed for drinks in the establishment, Eames watched Arthur pull a man from the dance floor with purpose, a possessive hand tucked in the back of the man’s tight jeans. Arthur led him out the door, tossing a wicked glance over his shoulder with a quick nod goodbye. The gesture caused Arthur’s hair to fall into his eyes. He looked so young to Eames then, all of nineteen years to his actual twenty-five, and absolutely gorgeous. Eames found that he was horrendously jealous of the anonymous man at Arthur’s side, bristling anger churning the alcohol in his stomach. He wanted to know personally what it would be like succumbing to that sly smile and magnetic pull. He wanted to be the one to see Arthur completely undone, laid out bare, soiled with come and skin covered in bruises, his carefully styled hair unruly and fanned out across the sheets of a bed.  
  
It takes five days for Arthur to arrive. Eames forgoes tailing the mark until Arthur gets in. There’s no use risking possible discovery, even if he thinks it’s he would be made. Without anything else to do, Eames gambles. He finds a new room, in the smoky second floor apartment of an old butcher’s shop, where he loses large sums of money and wins even larger ones. It’s not enough to distract him from thinking thoughts of Arthur’s arrival. Eames knows Arthur is not on another job or else he wouldn’t have offered to call in the first place. He wonders, as he sips a glass of whiskey, if Arthur actually had anything important to take care of, as was his excuse, or if he just felt like making Eames wait.  
  
Eames hasn’t seen Arthur in months, and when he arrives, he looks exquisite in a pinstriped, navy, fitted three-piece suit. Knowing Arthur, it’s probably designer, possibly custom made if not just tailored. Eames is instantaneously pleased that the weather here suits Arthur so well. The thickness of the fall fabrics cut perfect lines over his body, emphasizing the straight set of his shoulders, the V of his trim waist, and lengthening his body. Eames takes a very long look at the pull of the fabric over Arthur’s arse as Arthur sets his case down and shakes hands with the architect.  
  
Eames has never outright flirted with Arthur, told him just how stunning he thinks Arthur is when his sleeves are rolled up, showing the deceptively muscular stretch of his forearms. He wants to know what else is hidden underneath those clothes. He wants to find out where Arthur has hair and where he’s smooth, if he has any birthmarks or scars. He wants to know the way Arthur’s thigh looks when his legs are splayed, how his tendons stretch and his muscles tense. Eames wants to know what color Arthur’s nipples are, if they are dusky rose or light pink, or if they’re scarcely different in color from the rest of his skin at all.  
  
Eames has never lowered himself enough to leer, expose his wants so openly, but he suspects Arthur realizes anyway. Especially when, now, Arthur catches Eames’ eyes and quirks a dark eyebrow with amused disapproval. Eames twitches the corners of his mouth up in a false smile, not bothered by being caught — it is in his job description to watch people — and moves forward to shake the point man’s hand.  
  
“Arthur,” he greets in a lower register of voice, one he knows sounds gravelly and sex-roughened, gripping Arthur’s hand in his own. Arthur’s palm is warm, slightly calloused, and the handshake is firm but not aggressive; neither of them needs to prove anything or stake territory, or any of that other male posturing nonsense. They’ve known each other for long enough, their pissing matches executed with words rather than actions.  
  
“Eames,” Arthur replies flatly but with the barest hint of warmth creeping into his voice. Eames can’t help but return a small smile, thinking that Arthur must be in a good mood today. He looks well too, like he’s slept, like he’s put on a little weight. Eames remembered how ragged at the edges Arthur had seemed the last time Eames saw him, deep circles darkening the hollow of his eyes and the harried way he shucked his waistcoats halfway through the day. Normally Arthur is carefully put together all day long. It offsets his juvenile tendencies, such as tipping his chair, or sketching in his moleskine when he should be note taking. Then again, Arthur had been tailing Cobb around the world, a mad game, risking his life and sanity. He’s not sure how Arthur kept it all together, dealing with Cobb after Mal’s death. It had to have been difficult for Arthur, having been friends with Mal almost as long as he had been with Dom. Eames knows that the three of them had been the last additions to Project Somnacin, though it was long after Eames had left the program, had left the service, had left the country.  
  
Eames heard stories of the types of jobs Cobb had accepted during his time on the run, the narrow escapes, and the less than desirable clients. It’s a miracle they were so successful, up until Cobol that is. Eames supposes that he isn’t surprised that Arthur chose to forgo his usual formality during that stressful job, after all.  
  
Arthur frowns when Colin explains the mundane details of the job. He half-heartedly thumbs through the former point’s remaining research before tossing most of it into a bin with a huff about having to  start from square one.  The two weeks they had left before their original deadline is extended to four, possibly less, depending on Arthur’s new estimate once he gets settled in. The client isn’t pleased, but no one on the team is going to rush a person who is stepping in at the last minute as a favor.  
  
Eames thinks that a month seems like such a small amount of time.  
  
A few days after his arrival, Arthur shows up to the flat on a brand new Vespa. It’s fitting for the city’s crowded streets, convenient transportation when not walking. It’s deep burgundy with black and silver detailing which compliments Arthur’s style, with the new scooter accompanies a brand new and very nicely tailored suit. Gucci, Eames learns later as he surreptitiously checks the label when Arthur removes it for the day. Eames likes this one. It’s more severe than some of Arthur’s other suits, darker. Still modern though, making Arthur appear just a little dangerous.  
  
Arthur has his helmet tucked underneath one arm as he sets his bag down on the floor beside the desk. Eames would smirk to himself about how indulgent Arthur seems to become with appearance when in Italy, but he's too focused on the way Arthur's thin fingers are wrapped in satiny leather as they grip the curve of the helmet. Eames has never seen Arthur wear driving gloves before and the way that they make his hands look — long, precise, and  powerful — makes any quip of Arthur as a clichéd fashionista stutter to a stop on Eames’ tongue. Suddenly, Eames can’t focus on anything else. He’s absorbed by the idea of Arthur’s fingers. Eames wants Arthur's hands on him, over him,  in  him. He wants to feel the heat of Arthur encased inside the well-worn leather, trace over his body. He wants the threaded seams catch the nub of his nipple, and the cool button at the wrist of the glove press into his skin. And  that's a wonder , Eames thinks, because he has never had a fetish for leather or gloves before.  
  
Eames’ mouth is dry and there is something heavy sitting just below his Adam's apple. He stares at the way Arthur pulls a laptop and file folder from his satchel. Eames swallows thickly and tries very hard not to leer when Arthur unsnaps the gloves and tugs them off by pulling a single finger at a time. Arthur doesn't do anything so gauche as fold the gloves inside out or pull with his teeth. He knows how to treat his accessories, working the clinging material off his hands slowly, and Eames can't help but wonder if he treats everything else in his life with such care.  
  
“Eames?” Arthur questions, paused as he plucks at the leather still wrapped around his little finger. Eames’ eyes snap up, catching Arthur’s, and he feels a wave of heat wash over his body to settle in his stomach.  
  
“Just admiring the view,” Eames smirks as he shrugs his shoulders lazily. There is no point in hiding the fact that he was staring, if the knowing look on Arthur’s face is any indication.  
  
“Care to fill me in on your observations tailing Mr. Ruotolo these past weeks?” Arthur asks. He transitions the conversation flawlessly, seemingly not giving Eames’ comment a second thought as he sets the gloves aside and slips out of his suit jacket. It’s disappointing, on some level, to be shrugged off so casually, but Eames can hardly make a fuss. If Arthur isn’t interested, he isn’t interested. And if he’s not going to be riled up by offhand comments on the state of his attire, then Eames isn’t going to waste his time making himself look the fool by commenting more. He’ll have to rein in some of his behavior, force himself not to stare, because he can feel his eyes wandering over Arthur’s body already. Eames leads Arthur to the sitting room, lounging on the couch with affected ease as he proceeds to break down the mark’s tastes, schedule, relationships, and any other details of note, as Arthur scrawls in his notebook.  
  
Two weeks later and Eames is acting like a child, picking small fights at any opportunity and needling away at Arthur’s patience with such single-minded determination that even their apathetic architect is starting to become irritated by proxy. He’s not proud of it, not at all, but Eames is frustrated and horny in a way that makes him fidget all day, as if he’s back in school waiting for the bell to ring the end of classes. He just wants the day to be done so he can go back to his hotel and jerk off into a wad of tissues and go to sleep. He would like this godforsaken job to be done so that he can fuck off to some other tropical climate, possibly Cameroon, and be as far away from Arthur,  the bloody cock tease , as possible. It would be easier if Eames thought that Arthur was doing it on purpose, but Arthur never looks smug, or gleeful, or amused, or  anything anytime he does something that makes Eames cock twitch in his trousers and his tongue fumble over words. Eames is not a blithering idiot, and he is not incapable of controlling his own libido, but every one of Arthur’s actions seems specifically designed to break Eames down.  
  
Arthur will stand just so with his hands in his pockets, pulling the fabric of his trousers tightly across the firm curve of his arse, which is directly in Eames’ sight line. He’ll tilt his head in thought, exposing the long line of his pale neck, craning it towards Eames like an offer, daring Eames to press his tongue to the flutter of Arthur’s pulse beneath the frail skin. Or he’ll chew on his lip, plumping the flesh with his teeth, leaving it red and swollen as he stares at Eames, listening to Eames’ short lectures whenever Eames comes back from a day tailing the mark. Eames can hardly concentrate as he relays his new observations about Mr. Ruotolo, wanting only to sink his own teeth in to Arthur’s soft flesh.  
  
Worst of all, Arthur will wear his damn gloves all the time.  
  
Eames notices it a few days later. Arthur enters the apartment presumably after parking his scooter and places his satchel next to the desk. He then removes his jacket, hanging it in the small, shared closet. After that, Arthur continues about his business without, for some inexplicable reason, removing his gloves. He takes notes with fingers encased in the soft animal hide and wrapped lightly around a pen. He sits, sipping the morning coffee Eames makes him because he can’t carry a cup on a scooter and, due to his boredom, Eames has been the first to arrive lately. Arthur holds his mug between gloved fingers and Eames imagines the heat transferring through the material, soaking into Arthur’s skin slowly, keeping the warmth in.  
  
This weather isn’t cold enough to justify it right now, especially not inside the flat, but Arthur keeps the gloves on anyway. Eames can often hear the distinct creak of the leather rubbing together as Arthur wraps his hands around something. It’s hard to imagine that Arthur grabbing the handle of a PASIV case could be considered obscene, but anytime he does it, the thought of Arthur’s hand wrapping around something else entirely can’t help but crawl into Eames’ mind. Worse than Arthur wearing the gloves all day, is when he takes them off. Arthur is very precise the way he pulls them off, lays them across the desk, splayed out as if they are an erotic installation piece at a local gallery.  
  
They’re expensive and well made. The leather is soft and pliable and perfectly formed. The seams are even, not too thick, each stitch carefully laid. The holes along the knuckles and the button of the wristband are perfect accents to the shape, especially in contrast with Arthur’s pale skin underneath. From a distance you can’t see them, but there are small, perforated holes in the fingers to let air in, probably because they are unlined. Eames might have expected lambs wool or soft cotton inside, but doesn’t find it. Later, as he sits down to a small meal of pasta and wine, he’s chagrined to find that he’s pondering Arthur’s gloves when he’s alone, and not even in sight of them. He clears his plate from the table hastily, dropping it into the sink with a loud clank, and dashing out the door to find another game to focus on instead.  
  
As if Eames’ fetishizing them as inanimate objects wasn’t enough, Arthur will touch him with the gloves on. He’ll squeeze Eames’ shoulder, a friendly gesture, as he paces the room, going over notes in a morning briefing. He’ll touch Eames’ wrist to get his attention, or place a hand along Eames’ back as he passes by him in the small kitchen. Eames tenses with every touch, counting the seconds Arthur keeps contact with his body.  
  
All in all, it’s maddening and Eames’ control and concentration has long been lost to an overwhelming number of inappropriate thoughts and questions. He wants Arthur to keep touching him more, and yet, he doesn’t want Arthur to touch him at all, with the way it makes his heart race and his palms sweat. He wants to know what’s on Arthur’s mind, can’t work out Arthur’s motivations, if he has any at all. Maybe Eames is reading too much into this, maybe he’s just now noticing how often Arthur touches him. It would be easy for him to imagine that the gestures mean more.  
  
The violent back and forth of Eames’ thoughts sets him so far on edge that he can’t help but bristle. So he shouldn’t be surprised when Arthur calls him on his immature behavior, and he isn’t really, but the way that Arthur does it leaves him stunned. Eames is nitpicking, shutting down every comment that Arthur makes with vicious sarcasm and a scathing tongue. Arthur is getting irritated and snappish in return, which is entirely understandable. Colin, who was leading this session, can barely rein the discussion in. When finally, after a continued verbal sparring, of tearing each other apart, the architect has had enough and he yells at the both of them to grow the fuck up . The outburst effectively stalls the discussion and Colin wearily calls for a coffee break. His fretful glances towards the exit indicate that it’s for his need to escape the room more so than it is for Arthur or Eames’ benefit. Colin leaves, but their architect stays, grabbing his grid paper to sketch on as he wanders off to his claimed corner of the apartment.  
  
“Eames, a word?” Arthur hisses. Eames turns to find Arthur holding open the door of the bedroom. He bites his lip, chewing on it in frustration as he reluctantly follows Arthur in for a lengthy rebuke that he knows he deserves. But when Arthur closes the door lightly behind them, he doesn’t start berating like Eames expects him to. Instead Arthur grabs Eames’ shirt collar forcefully, flipping the twisted edge down and smoothing it out. Arthur has his gloves on and he’s too close, with his fingers trailing down Eames’ chest and grabbing at lapels of his blazer. Eames doesn’t know what to make of it, is at a complete loss for words as Arthur strokes over his clothes in maddening circles.  
  
“Are you going to tell me what’s bothering you?” Arthur asks, completely calm, as if it is perfectly normal for him to be arranging Eames’ clothes, breathing his air, touching him for this long.  
  
“You, Arthur; you are bothering me,” Eames bites out. He feels flushed and vulnerable, which spins his attitude towards the defensive. Arthur looks him directly in the eye with a calculating gaze. Eames feels so very small beneath its intensity, even though they’re roughly the same height and he has well over two stone in weight on Arthur. Arthur smirks, a sassy little smile, and in that moment it hits Eames like a punch to the solar plexus.  
  
He’s been missing the game all along.  
  
“I noticed, Mr. Eames. But what exactly about me is bothering you?” Arthur asks coyly as he steps closer, whispering his words across Eames lips. “Is it the suit?” Arthur cocks his head. His eyelashes flutter as he looks down to Eames’ mouth then back up to meet his eyes again. Eames doesn’t know what to say, but it’s no matter, because Arthur continues his mocking without leaving time for Eames to answer anyway. “No, that’s not it.” Eames swallows and breathes through his nose to keep from blurting out something stupid. He wants to push away, to get out of this room, out of Arthur’s grasp. “What is it, Mr. Eames?” Arthur asks as he pushes his hand up to Eames’ throat, lightly wrapping his fingers around Eames’ trachea in a gentle but threatening way, pushing at the line of Eames’ jaw with his thumb.

  


  
“You're a bastard and I think you know,” Eames grits out. He darts his eyes up to meet Arthur’s, can’t figure out when he started staring at Arthur’s mouth. Arthur hums, undeterred by Eames’ frustration.  
  
“Is it the gloves, Mr. Eames?” Eames feels heat where Arthur touches his face like a brand, lingering even when Arthur moves his hand to the back of Eames’ neck. “I’ve seen you staring at them … at me.” Eames growls when Arthur leans in to whisper in his ear, pressing the length of his body against Eames’ own. Arthur’s smooth cheek brushes against Eames’ jaw and Arthur’s hand holds against his neck, not allowing him to pull back. “Is this what you want, Mr. Eames?” Arthur’s other hand traces up the line of Eames’ inseam, turning to cup his bollocks. He presses against Eames’ cock, which is half hard from Arthur’s proximity, from his slightly spicy aftershave scent in Eames’ nose, and his controlling hand on Eames’ neck. Groaning, Eames presses into the touch, unable to stop the movement of his hips.  
  
“I’m going to tell you what I need,” Arthur says, gently tightening his grip and thumbing over the line of Eames’ cock. The pull on Eames’ neck becomes nearly imperceptibly stronger, leather fingertips digging into the lightly haired skin of his nape. Eames ruts, grinds helplessly into Arthur’s hand. “I need you to behave. For the rest of the day, Mr. Eames, not one contrary quip from you. No bickering, no sarcasm, no snapping. And then, if you are good,” Arthur’s hand pulls away from Eames’ crotch and his fingers flick lightly at Eames’ balls. It’s enough to have Eames jerking back, letting out a small  oof,  but not enough to hurt. “I will give you what you want. Do you understand?”  
  
Arthur steps away, still holding Eames’ neck, but at an arm’s length now. Eames searches Arthur’s eyes for any sign of teasing, any indication that Arthur is just fucking with him. All he sees is Arthur’s intensely focused gaze. It’s the one Arthur directs towards something he wants to accomplish, as if Eames is some task or a particularly difficult piece of information he’s paring down. Behind it, though, is a very powerful heat present as well. It makes the color of Arthur’s eyes seem darker, fathomless in depth as he waits for Eames’ answer.  
  
Eames hesitantly nods his understanding, tamping down the nervous flutter in his stomach. Arthur’s face softens with a smile, dimples appearing on his cheeks and delicate crows feet crinkling in the corner of his eyes. He seems as if he’s genuinely pleased. Eames doesn’t know exactly what this game is, or if he’s willing to play it out until the end, but he’s curious to know what exactly Arthur is willing to give him. Eames finds that he wants that pleased smile again and he’ll do what he has to get it.  
  
It’s an overwhelming realization and Eames’ immediate willingness to comply with Arthur’s demands sends a warning up his spine. Arthur releases the grip on his neck. He straightens his own tie and Eames stares as Arthur’s hands brush over the silk fabric, letting out a soft, slick sound as the two fabrics rub each other.  
  
“After you, Mr. Eames,” Arthur offers, gesturing towards the door. Eames’ cheeks redden and he feels extremely ill suited in his position. He’s not used to not controlling the situation, not being able to manipulate it to his own advantage. The thought of continuing, business as usual, has Eames grinding his teeth together. He takes a moment to right himself, adjusting his fledgling erection, sucking in a deep breath and setting his shoulders. A trickle of sweat works its way down his spine.  
  
Ignoring it, Eames pulls open the door and stalks out. Colin isn’t back yet, but their architect is eyeing the two of them suspiciously. Eames doubts he could hear any of their conversation even if he had been leaning against the door, and he doesn’t seem to have left his work so it’s unlikely. Eames sits on the couch; leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest in carefully contained hostility.  
  
He is conflicted. Eames hates feeling manipulated like this, hates that anyone can see how Arthur has gained the upper hand in a matter of minutes. Yet, at the same time, he is so very intrigued. Arthur had offered to give Eames  what he wanted , as if Arthur could know. Eames barely knows what he wants himself. Staring at Arthur now, how unaffected Arthur is as he sits at his desk and rewrites notes in his files, Eames thinks he’s willing to find out exactly what Arthur has to offer. The deal is too appealing. Behave, and get to see Arthur in a whole new way. Don’t behave, and everything stays the same.  
  
So why does he feel so very trapped right now? Eames can have the control of this situation. If he were to choose, he could ignore Arthur, continue arguing with and infuriating the man. He could drive this job’s productivity right into the sewer if he wanted to. Or he could double-cross, sell the mark information on his client and breeze out of the country. But what would he gain from that? Enemies of Colin and Elliot, which would do him no good. Colin is talented and fair; the architect is acceptable enough that Eames may want to work with him in the future. And likely he would make an enemy of Arthur, though Arthur might understand why Eames would bail this time and may forgive him. Possibly not.  
  
Arthur, for his part, doesn’t have any sense of self-satisfaction emanating from him from this situation. He looks perfectly normal, as if nothing happened between them in that room. He doesn’t look anything like a man who just fondled and propositioned a colleague on the job. No, Arthur is a masterful actor after all. Eames doesn’t know if he appreciates the fact that Arthur isn’t cocky in displaying that he won or if he hates him for it. He wishes Colin would fucking return already so they can get on with it.  
  
When Colin finally does wander back into the apartment, he glances between Arthur and Eames to assess the situation. Finding that everything is resolved, they continue their planning. Eames sits, too keyed up to hide his tells, and lets his leg jump up and down nervously as he listens. He ends up with chewed fingernails and sore fingertips from flipping his poker chip as the day wears on. Somehow, despite his agitation, Eames manages to not snap once. He very nearly sighs out loud with relief when Colin releases them and his teammates finally begin to pack up their stuff for the night. Though he doesn’t have very many personal items with him, Eames takes his time gathering himself and casually lingers, waiting for Arthur to finish collecting his own things, always the last to leave.  
  
Eames can’t help but stare as Arthur closes his briefcase, pinning the locks in place with a flick of his deft fingers, and reaches for the gloves he’d removed later in the afternoon. Arthur watches Eames as he dons the gloves, never breaking his gaze. He tugs at the edge of the leather, fitting them snugly over his fingers and snapping the button around the wrist. There’s a heaviness to the air around them, the weight of expectation, of uncertainty. Arthur doesn’t look uncertain at all. Now is when Arthur’s self satisfied smirk finally emerges as he snaps the button on his second glove, shrugs on his black jacket, and grabs his case and his helmet.  
  
“How do you ride with the case?” Eames asks to break the silence. He shoves his hands in his pockets so they don’t fumble nervously at his sides. Arthur doesn’t reply. Eames knows the answer to that question and Arthur apparently isn’t allowing him diffuse the tension with small talk. Instead Arthur brushes past him to the door. Eames stands, studying the wallpaper ahead. It’s peeling at the corner where it meets the ceiling, old glue dried and splotchy underneath. Eames sighs through his nose, then turns. He licks over his own lips, which suddenly seem dry and chapped. Arthur is watching him from the door, a contemplative expression on his face as he waits for Eames to follow.  
  
“We don’t have to do this,” Arthur says reassuringly. His helmet is still resting at his side, catching the light of the hallway on its glossy surface. Eames pulls a hand from his pocket and runs a fingernail over his lip. He feels as if they’re at a precipice here. If he walks away now, Arthur will go back to being just a colleague. He’ll be like some pretty thing, a painting in a museum that Eames likes to look at but can never have.  
  
“Lead the way,” he says, because he could walk away, but Eames has rarely walked away from a challenge, a gambler at heart. Arthur smiles softly, not nearly as pleased as before, but hinting at it. He turns; stepping out into the hallway and Eames follows, allowing the door to click shut behind him, leaving any sense of self-preservation he has locked inside.  
  
The ride to Arthur’s flat could be awkward, but Eames finds it rather pleasurable instead. Arthur fastens his briefcase to the back of the motorbike in a custom rack and tosses the helmet to Eames. “I don’t have a spare,” he says when Eames smirks at the misplaced chivalry. Eames doesn’t argue or try to hand it back, though. The slightness of Arthur’s frame is always something Eames has known about on some level, but it’s different, feeling it beneath his arms as he slides onto the scooter behind him. Pressing his hand to the front of Arthur’s body, Eames can feel every breath that Arthur takes. He can feel the shift of muscles beneath the suit’s fabric as Arthur turns, balancing the vehicle as he navigates the city. Eames soaks in Arthur’s warmth as his chest is pressed to Arthur’s back, but the rushing air is cold on his bare fingers. He works them beneath Arthur’s jacket, shielding them from the wind. It takes less than fifteen minutes for them to arrive, but it seems like it’s so much longer. Eames loses track of time with the hum of the motor and the rhythm of Arthur’s body.  
  
Pulling off the helmet when they arrive, Eames wonders how he came to this point. His wanting Arthur has always been something seemingly unobtainable before. But Arthur is the one who offered first and Eames is not going to let the opportunity slip through his fingers. He looks at Arthur, lit by the moon, silver skinned and shadowy. The severity of Arthur’s appearance gives Eames the impression of a mirror, angular, edged, and dangerous if you look too long. If Arthur is as nervous as Eames is, it doesn’t show. He unlocks the door and ushers Eames inside.  
  
The apartment is warm, small and sparsely decorated with generic Italian pottery and unremarkable rugs strewn over the wood floor. The ceiling beams are exposed, making the atmosphere more friendly, but it’s obviously not a home lived in by any one person. This place has all the hallmarks of being a rental: bland furniture, inoffensive and unoriginal artwork, and the cleanliness only a maid service can provide. Eames wouldn’t have been surprised if Arthur had a permanent flat here in Florence either, and is a little disappointed that he doesn’t. A person’s space can tell you so much about them. Eames would love the opportunity to peek into one of Arthur’s sanctuaries, a place that he can be himself in. He wonders what little secrets Arthur has stowed away, what things about Arthur would be a surprise. Arthur leads him inside through the entry to the seating area. He hangs his jacket over the back of a chair and offers Eames a drink.  
  
“Any bourbon?” Eames asks as pauses at the room’s entrance. Arthur brushes past, a little too close as he makes his way to the kitchen and pulls open the cabinets. He clinks bottles together as he searches through his supply. Eames takes in more of the room. The windows are tall, framed with dark curtains, and the walls are painted a warm cream color. A pair of shoes is set out by the door, the only indication someone actually inhabits this place.  
  
“No, the only whisky I have is Crown Royal,” Arthur says popping his head from behind the cabinet door. Eames can’t stop himself from throwing a mocking look over his shoulder, but he holds back any comment, afraid that their agreement from earlier is still in effect. “Shut up, I like it,” Arthur says with a lopsided smile in return. “I can get you something else.”  
  
“No, it’s perfectly fine.” Eames takes a seat on the couch. It’s soft, but smells faintly of dust. His fingers itch for something to do, but he’s not going to play with his chip now. Shrugging, Arthur pours two glasses. He walks around the small island separating the rooms and hands Eames his drink. Sitting in a chair across from Eames, Arthur sips casually, gloved fingers catching starbursts of light from his glass’s cut edge. Eames shifts uncomfortably under Arthur’s steady gaze, sipping at his drink.  
  
“I hate to sound impatient,” he starts, after too long has passed in silence and he’s finished half of his glass. Placing it on the table beside him he continues, “But what exactly are we doing here?”  
  
Arthur looks at him with an assessing gaze before he uncrosses his legs and sets his glass on a side table carefully. The air in the room shifts as Arthur rises, maneuvering around the coffee table to stand directly in front of Eames. Eames looks up at him, taken by how menacing Arthur seems from this position. Arthur hasn’t taken the jacket off and his shoulders are rolled back, spine straight, one hand in his trouser pocket as the other reaches out to cup Eames’ jaw. There’s an intensity to Arthur’s eyes. They’re more focused now. The playfulness from earlier is gone and Eames feels his adrenaline start to kick in. He grapples with his fight or flight reflexes, wanting ultimately to do neither, but his mind is sounding alarm bells as if someone has set the building ablaze. Eames breaks eye contact, reflexively finding the path to the exit.  
  
“No, you look at me,” Arthur commands. Eames’ eyes snap back up, locking with Arthur’s again. It feels as if something in the room shatters, the glass of the windows, or the vases in the corners, but it’s possible that it’s simply something inside Eames. He feels flushed, hyper-aware of the way the air leaves his lungs more quickly with every breath, of every movement Arthur makes no matter how small. They stay like that for what seems like far too long, Arthur waiting, Eames waiting too. The silence is suffocating. Then Arthur shifts his hand on Eames’ jaw to thumb over Eames’ lips. Eames can smell the oil of the leather and he parts his lips just enough, an invitation if Arthur wants it.  
  
“That’s better,” Arthur whispers. He momentarily pulls Eames’ bottom lip down but releases it just as quickly. Moving again, he holds Eames’ chin and tilts Eames’ face up even farther. Arthur bends, gradually, purposefully, spine still rigidly straight as he lowers himself to catch Eames’ lips with his own. The kiss is soft, almost nothing at all. Arthur tastes of afternoon coffee and Canadian whiskey. Eames wants more; he wants to breathe Arthur in, but he’s afraid to move. He’s afraid that whatever hold Arthur has over him will flutter away like a moth chasing lights if he demands more. Somewhere, in the back of his mind or the pit of his stomach, he knows that Arthur will give him what he wants, if he waits. He just has to be patient, to be good. He has to earn it.  
  
Arthur pulls away and it takes a considerable amount of will power for Eames to not follow. He stares as Arthur stands tall again and thumbs across Eames’ lips for the second time. Only this time he lingers, stroking, and Eames darts his tongue out tentatively to lick along the leather. Circling around Eames’ tongue once, Arthur slowly pushes the digit past Eames’ teeth into his mouth. Eames sucks on the thumb, playing his tongue over the sides and dragging his teeth down it until they catch on the seamed tip. Arthur pulls his thumb out again. The leather is glossy and wet with Eames’ spit and he draws a damp line down Eames’ chin to the column of his neck, slowly making his way to the top of Eames’ collar. Arthur hooks his index finger in the shirt, pulling Eames forward until he’s no longer leaning back onto the sofa and is instead sitting on the edge, his face level with the fly of Arthur’s trousers. Eames can smell Arthur, differently from when Arthur was pressed to him earlier in the day. He can smell Arthur’s musk, his core. He can see the start of a tent in the perfect line of Arthur’s trousers and his own cock responds in kind. Silently Arthur removes his other hand from his pocket. He places it on the side of Eames’ head, lightly pulling at Eames’ hair, tousling where it’s combed down against his scalp.

 

  
“Open it,” Arthur says, low voice resonating in the quiet of the room. Eames quickly complies, the action nearly instinctive to the tone. He undoes the button on Arthur’s fly before pulling the zipper down, feeling every tooth of metal catch beneath his fingers. Eames never breaks eye contact. He doesn’t go farther, knowing that this is not how the game works, and he waits for Arthur to tell him when to continue. It feels like an eternity sitting there, his hand still holding the open wing of Arthur’s trousers, the other not moving from the zipper pull. When Arthur finally commands, “Take me out,” Eames can barely move fast enough. He tucks all of his fingers into the band of Arthur’s pants and pulls them down, cupping Arthur in his hands as he releases Arthur’s semi-soft cock and balls over the top. Again Eames stops, waiting for permission to do more, fingers wrapped loosely around Arthur’s cock. Arthur is larger than Eames might have thought, cut and beautiful with landscape of trimmed dark hair fanning out from the base of his cock. Eames wants nothing more than to take Arthur into his mouth, to feel Arthur slide inside, to know the exact weight of Arthur on his tongue. Eames wants to feel the way Arthur would stretch his lips as he grows harder and harder.  
  
“You are so very good at following direction, Eames. I wish you were this amicable professionally.” Eames doesn’t laugh at Arthur’s comment, but he wants to. It hits him how absurd this situation they’re in is. He really doesn't know what he’s doing here. He knows what he wants, in this instant, but beyond that he has no idea what is going to happen. Does he care if this ruins their working relationship? Maybe not. He could do perfectly well for himself never working another job with Arthur again. It would be a juggle, but Eames has enough contacts, enough fall backs, and there are plenty of teams. The chance to fuck Arthur is not something to pass up. If it’s awkward after this, then Arthur just becomes another person on a list of those that Eames won’t work with again. Everyone might find a place that list eventually, so adding Arthur earlier than expected isn’t much of a loss professionally.  
  
However, Eames finds the idea of it unsatisfactory. Something about not working with Arthur ever again makes Eames’ feel uncomfortable in an abstract way that he can’t quite pin down. For the moment, he’s getting what he wants and if it goes well then he might not have to deal with unwanted consequences. That begs the question though; if Eames is getting what he wants, what does Arthur want from all of this?  
  
“Stop thinking,” Arthur says, tapping his fingers lightly on Eames’ skull for emphasis. Eames’ eyes refocus from their thoughtful glaze. It’s an impossible request as his mind jumps from questioning his luck, to why Arthur is doing this now, to if this is all some sort of game or could it possibly be more? Eames nods anyway.  
  
“Whatever you want, Arthur,” Eames whispers, directing his breath across Arthur’s growing erection which elicits a shallow, startled inhale. Arthur pulls Eames’ head back by the hair. It’s not a violent move, it’s not particularly painful, but it’s forceful enough to have Eames’ swallow nervously, thinking he’s made a tactical error by teasing. He stares up, trying to decipher what’s behind Arthur’s reaction, if he has pushed too far too fast.  
  
“I …” Arthur hesitates, a wash of some undefined emotion temporarily seizing the features of his face. His expression closes off, hardens back into confident control as he releases his prick from Eames’ light grasp to hold himself in his own hand, stroking along the length of his cock. With willed control he continues, “I want you to put your mouth to better use.” Arthur’s skin looks so pale against the gloves as the leather slides up and down in a steady rhythm. Arthur’s other fingers still grip the back of Eames’ head, not letting him surge forward to take Arthur into his mouth as per Arthur’s suggestion. Instead Arthur waits, he strokes himself, forcing Eames to watch. Eames licks his lips expectantly.  
  
When Arthur is completely erect, cock-head flushed a beautiful red, the grip on Eames’ hair changes from holding him back to pushing him forward. Eames’ hands move to find balance automatically, pressing against the fabric on Arthur’s thighs as Arthur slowly and deliberately guides Eames’ head to his body. Feeding his cock inch by inch into the depths of Eames’ mouth, until he’s run the head into the back of Eames’ throat, Arthur hums with satisfaction.  
  
It’s difficult to take all of Arthur’s length without breaking eye contact, but Eames manages. He watches Arthur watch him. The slight flush that roses Arthur’s cheeks makes him seem younger but there’s no adolescent hesitation in the way Arthur drives into his mouth. There’s nothing about the tempered control Arthur is exerting that hints at any kind of youthful reserve. It makes Eames feel oddly secure letting Arthur lead him, show him exactly what he wants and when. Eames relaxes more with the knowledge that Arthur has to be enjoying himself as he sees how Arthur’s eyelashes flutter when he passes Eames’ lips on every withdrawal and how his mouth parts on a gasp when he hits Eames’ throat again and again. Eames wants to save this image forever, a snapshot of erotic bliss stored in the overstuffed photo book of his memory. The intensity of Arthur’s half-lidded gaze as he stares back down into Eames is something Eames could wank off to a thousand times without tiring.  
  
Eames opens his throat farther, finding a rhythm eventually as Arthur’s hips piston forward and back. His tongue plays over the bottom of Arthur’s cock, swirling around the raised veins, as if he can lick the blood’s path through them. Eames can feel the curl of Arthur’s pubic hair brush along his lips every time Arthur pushes past the barrier of Eames’ throat, driving himself so deep Eames gags on it. Arthur’s hands never leave his head; never loosen their grip on his hair. Eames’ scalp is sore but he ignores it, focusing on his task instead. Arthur pulls him in and holds him there. His hips still their rhythm as Eames’ throat flexes around Arthur’s cock before he releases, allowing Eames to breathe again and resumes his unhurried pace. By the time Eames’ jaw is aching from being stretched open, his chin is dripping with spit and his eyes are watering from the effort. He doesn’t dare look away, even for a moment as Arthur watches him, watches the way his cock is sliding between Eames’ lips.  
  
Finally, Arthur’s pace begins to falter. His hips snap faster in an ill-timed beat into Eames’ mouth. Eames hollows his cheeks for more suction as he swirls his tongue around the slit of Arthur’s cock and bobs his head faster to meet Arthur’s forward thrust. Arthur only breaks their eye contact when his orgasm hits. Eames can feel Arthur’s legs shudder beneath his fingertips as Arthur’s eyes pinch closed and his shoulders roll forward, making his chest a concave shadow below his hanged head. It’s not a flattering look: Arthur’s face flushed and screwed up into a moment of overwhelming sensation, but it sends a tidal wave of arousal straight through Eames’ body anyway. Eames swallows and swallows and plays his tongue around until Arthur is spent and his hips jerk away due to oversensitivity. The little gasps Arthur can’t help but release make Eames want to keep sucking, keep pushing Arthur beyond his limits, but Arthur’s hold on his hair tightens and he pulls Eames back, his cock falling wetly past Eames’ lips. He bends down, spine loose this time, arched as both of his hands bracket Eames’ face and he presses his lips to Eames’ in a kiss.  
  
Standing again, Arthur releases Eames’ head. He slowly tucks himself back into his pants and zips his trousers. When he’s done he runs his fingers through Eames’ now untidy hair, massaging lightly over where he had pulled before. He pets over Eames’ face, brushing over Eames’ cheekbones affectionately.  
  
The ache in Eames’ jaw is relieved, but he’s left feeling dazed and a little lost. This was not how he had expected things to go. The entire situation is now how he expected things to go. Eames once imagined that he would be the one fucking Arthur: hard and fast and dirty. They might find themselves between jobs, between the sheets in some nameless hotel. Eames would imagine all the gasps and whimpers he might draw out of Arthur, make Arthur beg for him, demand  more, more, more . He’d think of Arthur, loose and pliant, broken and open and wanting, unable to control himself. Eames had wanted to see him like that, opposite of Arthur’s everyday persona. He had wanted to see Arthur desperate. How foolish he had been with that fantasy.  
  
Eames had never imagined that he would be the one to submit, to be controlled, with a hand in his hair looking up eagerly for approval. He’s been fucked before and enjoys bottoming with the proper top, but he somehow didn’t think that this would be the case with Arthur. He’s decidedly not unhappy at the turn of events. Eames is, however, a little disappointed that Arthur has already come. From the moment Arthur stood towering above him tonight, Eames has wanted to be fucked, to have Arthur curving his body over Eames’ with his cock buried deep into his arse. He wanted to feel Arthur bite against his shoulder and the sweat slick between their skin. But that doesn't seem to be in the cards, and Eames wonders, now, if he ever will get to be taken by Arthur. Tomorrow could mean the end to this all, whatever it is they have. This might have been his only chance, and it’s over already.  
  
“You’re thinking too much again,” Arthur says quietly as he cups the side of Eames’ face in his palm. Eames’ attention is drawn back to the moment. He’s in the living room of Arthur’s rented apartment, sitting on the couch, and Arthur is standing above him looking only vaguely debauched, the red flush fading from his cheeks. Arthur’s other hand strokes the sides of Eames’ head. Eames smirks and pats his hands on Arthur’s thighs before dropping them down to rest on the couch at his sides. The gesture has an awkward sense of finality to it; Eames wonders if he should go but Arthur makes no move to let him up. He still hovers in Eames’ space, still plays over Eames’ skin with his fingers. “We’re not even close to done,” Arthur says, as if he’s reading Eames’ thoughts.  
  
“If you say so.” Eames quirks a skeptical brow, falling back to sarcasm because he doesn’t know how else to react right now. Arthur pats Eames’ head condescendingly, as if Eames is a small child or a puppy. Before Eames can properly take offense, Arthur wraps his hand around the back of Eames’ neck and urges him to stand.  
  
“Follow me,” Arthur says, though it isn’t necessary with the way he leads Eames as he walks backwards and away from the couch. They make their way around the rest of the furniture in the sitting room then Arthur releases him, turning to proceed down the hallway. Eames follows silently. His erection juts out from his body, pulling at the fabric of his trousers as he walks. He doesn’t bother adjusting and just lets his cock rub uncomfortably on the fabric. His heart quickens as they make their way towards a closed door at the end of the hall. There’s a shower room on the right, and another room on the left, but Eames isn’t interested in them enough to notice more. He’s focused on Arthur and their destination; somewhat feeling like a teenager entering their lover’s room for the first time, all built up anticipation and nerves. He hasn’t felt like this in a very long time, like he’s being allowed to see something he shouldn’t be. This isn’t Arthur’s room though, not in the same way one in Arthur’s house would be; the effect is all the same.  
  
Eames is taken by surprise when, after Arthur opens the door and leads him in, he’s bodily pushed up against the wall. His shoulders hit hard, shaking the frame of a painting hanging from its hook. "Stay still," Arthur demands. Eames does. He doesn’t dare to raise his hands, or shift his legs, or push Arthur off of him. Arthur leans in and licks into his mouth. His tongue catches on Eames’ crooked front tooth, the one he doesn’t straighten because first, he’s English and second, it can make him look ten year younger when he grins — ambiguous age is an asset to a conman. Eames wants to kiss back; to claim Arthur’s mouth as well and soon gives in to the urge, though tentatively at first. He figures he’s not actually moving in the sense that he thinks Arthur means when his head urges forward and his lips press harder against Arthur’s. Arthur doesn’t reprimand him, so he deepens the kiss, learns the inner depths of Arthur’s mouth as his tongue duels with Arthur’s and they kiss and kiss and kiss.  
  
They break only due to the need to breathe. Arthur pulls back and Eames sees that he is flushed again, lips kiss-swollen and cherry red. Arthur’s beautiful pout makes Eames want to dive forward, to kiss Arthur breathless again, hungry for more of Arthur’s taste. He stays put, though, arse pressed against the wall as he waits for Arthur to instruct him.  
  
Arthur doesn’t say a word; instead he slowly starts to peel Eames’ jacket from his shoulders, loosing Eames’ arms from his sleeves. The jacket falls to the floor in a pile and Arthur immediately starts on Eames’ shirt. Quickly popping the buttons from their holes and spreading Eames’ shirt wide when the bottom is undone, Arthur then untucks Eames’ undershirt and pushes it up. His gloved palms smooth over Eames’ chest. The touch is warm, soft, and very slightly impersonal with the lack of actual skin-to-skin contact. Eames’ cock jumps in appreciation as Arthur’s thumb catches on one of Eames’ nipples.  
  
Arthur steps forward and kisses him again, hands floating down Eames’ sides, his shirt falling with them and the light touch making the muscles of his abdomen flex. He palms Eames’ stomach before turning his hands downwards to tuck into the band of Eames’ trousers. The press of fingers on the sensitive skin of Eames’ hips makes him groan into Arthur’s mouth. Arthur smiles again, lips pulling tight as they still press against Eames’ own. Eames can feel Arthur’s teeth; he licks over them, along their sharp edges and slick surface. Arthur moves his hands to unfasten Eames’ belt, pulling the end free from the buckle. He slides the belt from the loops and drops it to the floor with the jacket. Eames’ hands can’t help but find their way to Arthur’s shoulders to steady him, wrinkling the fabric of Arthur’s shirt as Arthur strips him down. But Arthur grabs his wrists and twists his arms up above his head. He forcefully places each of Eames’ hands behind his head so that his elbows V out and his torso is left vulnerable.  
  
“Stay still,” Arthur commands again. Eames threads his own fingers through his hair to keep his hands from moving involuntarily. Arthur’s gloved hands glide back up his skin, tracing along his ribs, raising his hair in a shiver. He pulls Eames’ shirt up and over his head, pushing the fabric between his hands and his head, which traps it around his shoulders and neck. Then Arthur bends to lick at one of Eames' nipples. He sucks at it a little, pulling the nub between his teeth and lips, and then kissing it sweetly. Eames would laugh at that with anyone else, but with Arthur, in this moment, the sensation is lovely. He feels a jolt of pleasure every time Arthur’s tongue laps over his sensitive nub. When Arthur bites, Eames hisses. The pain is sharp, his skin over stimulated with anticipation, crawling with his desire to move. He’s not used to being forced still and knows that he fidgets naturally.  
  
All of Eames’ nerves come alive as Arthur’s teeth work a bruising trail over his chest. Then Arthur backs off again to divest Eames of his trousers. They fall to the floor, adding to the pile of discarded clothing. Standing in only his briefs and shirt still wrapped around his head, Eames feels a little ridiculous as his arms are splayed out and his back is against the wall. He’s not used to feeling so exposed, so open. But Arthur’s hands are surprisingly comforting as they work over him. Eames closes his eyes and enjoys the way Arthur’s hands sweep over his body, down his legs eventually and over his calves. Arthur taps his ankle once, a signal for him to raise his right foot, which Eames obliges. Arthur removes his sock and shoe before tapping Eames’ other ankle to do the same for the left.  
  
Once done with that task, Arthur kisses his way up Eames’ legs, trailing fingertips through his hair on the way up. It’s soft and sensual in a way that Eames hasn’t experienced in a long time. He’s accustomed to quick, rough fucks negotiated after a thorough crowd-searching at a local bar or club and one too many throat-burning drinks to get over any paranoia about the sexual encounter being some sort of setup. In his line of work, it’s a very real possibility.  
  
The blood in Eames’ arms is starting to drain and he can feel his fingertips start to tingle with impending numbness. He doesn’t complain though, not as Arthur’s lips touch the soft skin of his inner thigh, not as they press against the junction of his hip. Arthur’s mouth is so close, a promise of wet heat and Eames’ cock strains in his briefs when Arthur draws near. He wants so badly for Arthur to free him, to take him in his hand or his mouth, to feel the sweetness of Arthur’s beautiful lips wrapped around him.  
  
“You’re being so good for me,” Arthur whispers, kneeling in front of Eames. It’s a reversal of their position before and the reason behind Arthur’s purposefully directed breath ghosting across Eames’ skin is not lost on him. Arthur looks up, a smile on his lips and a mischievous glint in his eyes. He hooks his fingers into the band of Eames’ briefs and very slowly pulls them lower. The elastic drags along Eames’ cock, holding it down until it passes the head and allows it to spring up. Arthur looks amused with the action and Eames forces himself to suppress a grin when he sees Arthur’s expression quickly shift to something like hunger. Eames is expecting Arthur to touch him then but Arthur doesn’t. He lets Eames stand there, pants wrapped around his ankles and his erection jutting out into the room.  
  
“You have a beautiful cock,” Arthur says as his eyes sweep up Eames’ body. Eames does smile at that, the filthiness lurking behind the simply stated words. Arthur rubs his hands up Eames’ thighs to his stomach, than he pushes himself off the floor to continue a path up Eames’ chest. He doesn’t stop until his hands have wrapped lightly around Eames’ throat and over his jaw. Arthur directs Eames head forward and kisses him again, tongue searching his mouth fervently. He presses his body to Eames and the fabric of his trousers feels slightly rough against his skin. The buttons on Arthur’s shirt are cold against his chest. Eames wants to feel Arthur’s skin against his own. He presses against Arthur as much as he can, toes curling into the plush carpet to keep from stepping forward into Arthur’s body.  
  
When Arthur pulls away from the kiss, he thumbs over Eames lips. Pushing delicately with two of his fingers he urges Eames to open his mouth, allowing them to slide in. Eames watches Arthur’s face and wonders if he looks as doe-eyed as he feels as Arthur presses down on his tongue and Eames laps over of the leather eagerly. Arthur adds a third finger, working them in and out of Eames’ mouth, every so often holding onto his jaw like a handle, like he’s testing his control. Eames’ plays his tongue between the gaps of Arthur’s fingers and his sucks them in as far as he can when Arthur pushes them forward. The gloves are soaked, gleaming wet when Arthur withdraws them from Eames’ mouth.  
  
“Get on the bed. Face the wall,” Arthur commands hoarsely, as if he can’t quite find his voice. He sounds fucked out from earlier, which makes Eames’ heart pulse faster, the blood going straight to his cock. He hurries to step out of his pants and starts to lower his arms to but Arthur flicks his elbow in disapproval. He keeps them locked behind his head and crawls awkwardly onto the bed, trying not to fall over.  
  
Kneeling in the sheets, Eames waits for Arthur to tell him what to do next. He feels Arthur climb onto the bed behind him, the mattress dipping under his weight, and Arthur’s heat presses against his back. He wraps his hands around to cup Eames’ chest. The glove on his right hand is wet and it leaves Eames’ skin damp and chilled to the air in the room. Then he gently tweaks Eames’ nipples, sending a little shock of pleasure through Eames’ body. When Arthur releases Eames, he brings his hands to his sides and runs them up along Eames’ arms, curving around his elbows before following down to his wrists. He pulls Eames’ grip apart, releasing his interlocked fingers. Turning one of Eames’ hands around he directs Eames to grip his own wrists, each hand wrapping around the bones of the opposing limb.  
  
Eames doesn’t know what’s going on, but he follows Arthur’s lead implicitly. Arthur wraps his hand around both of Eames’ wrists, holding them together in place. He starts to bend Eames forward onto the bed, balancing Eames with a palm to his stomach. It takes a considerable amount of effort on Eames part not to face-plant into the bed as Arthur lowers him. Stomach muscles flexing, he bends as Arthur guides him to the bed. Eames is breathing much harder by the time he is finally laying face-down on the sheets. It has little to do with any exertion and entirely to do with how turned on he is with his arse propped in the air and Arthur kneeling behind him.  
  
Arthur lets go of his wrists and runs one of his leather-covered hands down Eames’ back. The other he uses to reposition Eames’ arms above his head so that he can pull the shirt from around his shoulders. Arthur tosses it out into the room then pulls Eames arms into position, so that they are pressed, palms down, against the mattress beside his head. “Don’t move,” Arthur directs.  
  
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Eames is trying for sarcasm but fails with how broken his voice sounds. His cock hangs towards the bed, flushed and ready, twitching anytime the muscles in his legs flex. Arthur pets over his skin. The touch is firm, something Eames can focus on. Arthur’s hands seem to be everywhere at once. Arthur draws them over Eames’ shoulders, then his lower back to his flank. His fingertips knead Eames’ flesh, and it makes him feel somewhat like a show animal being checked over. Only very slightly like an animal, though; he feels at least prized as Arthur’s soothing strokes continue their path down his thighs and legs.  
  
Just when he’s relaxing into it, zoning out as Arthur massages up his back, Arthur brings his right hand to Eames’ lips and forces his fingers into his mouth again. Eames suckles lightly at first, then with fervor as Arthur pumps into his mouth, working his fingers around Eames’ tongue and nearly gagging him when he pushes in too far. When Arthur pulls free, he leaves Eames with spit strung across his cheek and his mouth feeling empty. He gasps when Arthur’s wet, gloved fingers start to spread his buttocks.  
  
Pausing before going farther, Arthur says again, “Remember, Eames, don’t move, don’t lift your hands, don’t even shift your knees out of place. Nothing unless I direct you.” Eames doesn’t reply or shake his head. Instead he settles into his position, arches his back more, and lets his silence communicate his compliance. Arthur leans back and pulls Eames’ arse cheeks apart. He runs a wet thumb over Eames’ hole, circling it teasingly, barely exerting any pressure as he massages the ring of muscle. Eames savors the feeling of Arthur’s delicate touch, the way it speeds up just a hair at the end of the stroke. The gloves feel different than skin. The texture is smoother, and Eames didn’t realize he would be able to tell. They’re colder than fingers would be, and softer, except where the seams rub on his skin.  
  
Arthur swipes obscenely over his hole again and again, pressing harder with each stroke until he is barely forcing the tip of his finger inside. He doesn’t insert it fully, pulls it away to drag it over Eames’ perineum, down to his balls. Eames would say it was cruel if not for the predictability, the steady rhythm of Arthur’s touch. Eames sighs into the massage, closes his eyes and clears his thoughts. His breathing becomes deep and easy. Then, when Eames is starting to truly drift, to lose himself in his own thoughts, Arthur bends down and pushes his face between Eames’ cheeks. Eames lets out a tiny, startled gasp as Arthur kisses his arsehole.  
  
He can feel Arthur smile against his skin, seeming to enjoy Eames’ startled reaction, the cheeky bastard. But before Eames’ can comment, Arthur starts licking in earnest. He buries his face between Eames’ cheeks, sucking and swirling around Eames’ entrance. Eames can’t seem to find a proper response, other than sharp, hiccupped noises and low moans. Clawing his fingertips into the bed, Eames tries not to move as Arthur licks him out. A daunting display of will, because he urgently wants to push back onto Arthur’s face, to drive Arthur’s tongue deeper inside. Resisting, he forces himself to stay still.  
  
Arthur told him not to move.  
  
Eames’ mouth hangs open in a shallow pant and he tries to overcome his surprise and focus on how Arthur’s tongue feels as it moves over him, dips into him, and then swirls again. Arthur laps over and over, making Eames wet and hot and aching for more, aching to be filled. Eames lets himself succumb to the pleasure of Arthur’s mouth, lets it become his singular focus.  
  
Eames lets out a throaty moan when Arthur works lower and draws one of his testicles into his hot mouth, pulling on it gently and rolling his tongue over the skin before letting it go with a wet pop. Arthur spreads Eames’ cheeks wider, his thumbs exerting pressure to hold him open. Arthur licks in more forcefully, pointing his tongue, forcing it deeper inside. Eames can feel himself open up; feel when his hole relaxes to allow Arthur’s tongue in. He can’t keep his hands flat, can’t stop them from pulling the fabric of the sheets between his fingers as he chews on his lip to quiet his ever-increasing moans. He nearly growls when Arthur unexpectedly slides a thumb inside of him. It’s slick from Arthur’s spit, or Eames’ spit, or both; he’s not exactly sure how long it’s been, how long he’s been face down on the bed with his arse in the air.  
  
Arthur fingers him slowly, the thumb blunt and a little too thin, but still able to build up layers of sensation as Arthur presses down or up and slides in and out with a deliberate, undulating pattern. Sweat is spotting Eames’ forehead and he shudders when Arthur’s unoccupied fingers tickle over the inside of his thigh, barely brushing over the hairs of his leg as they make their way up to his sac to knead his testicles. When Arthur’s tongue slides beside the thumb he has buried in Eames’ body, Eames lets out a gasped, “Fuck!” He forgets he was trying to control himself at all. Eames isn’t even stretched completely yet he wants more. He wants Arthur to fuck him, to drive him into the mattress, take him hard and fast making him float on the high adrenaline and dopamine with his mind completely, incoherently blissed out.  
  
Instead Arthur is steady and methodical. He builds Eames up only to gentle him down when Eames’ breath starts hitching and he can feel his balls draw up to his body. Eames shouldn’t be able to come like this, just one finger in his arse and Arthur not even touching his cock, but he thinks he might. Especially as Arthur twists his fingers down, searching for his gland inside.  
  
“Oh, fuck!” Eames curses louder when Arthur finds it, the sensation sharp at first. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” His voice breaks off into mumbling as the sensation begins to dull, a steady, intense pressure that thrums throughout his body as Arthur continues. Eames’ fingers contract and relax as he grips the sheets. His blood feels hot as it courses through his body, feels like it’s being pulled forcefully through his veins like a magnet would metal shavings. The pleasure is fleeting, too much then too little in an agonizing cycle.  
  
Suddenly, Arthur pulls out and moves to rummage through a drawer in the bedside table. Eames whimpers at the loss, his hips circling in the air, cock heavy and ignored between his legs. He feels bereft without Arthur’s body heat right behind him, empty without Arthur’s finger opening him up.  
  
“Shhh,” Arthur says when he sits back. His palm slides over Eames’ side and down his hip. Eames’ cock jumps and leaks down onto the bed when he shivers from the caress. Eames can see, just out of the corner of his eye, that Arthur has grabbed a bottle of what he assumes to be lube. Uncapping it, Arthur pours some onto his right glove; he rubs his fingers together to spread the slick around. Then Arthur settles back beside Eames and strokes his clean glove over Eames’ hip reassuringly. His right hand then presses back between Eames’ cheeks, rubbing over Eames’ hole to spread the slick before sliding two fingers past the clench of his muscle.  
  
It feels so smooth, so much better then it had, despite the added digit. Eames pants into the sheets, hot breath bouncing back off the surface and onto his face. Arthur’s other hand keeps rubbing circles over his skin, up his back, over his shoulders and back down to his arse and thighs. Slowly, so slowly, Arthur works him open, scissoring his fingers, then pumping in with circular movements. After a while, Arthur tries to add a third finger and Eames grits his teeth against the stretch. He can’t help but let out a little hiss of displeasure; it’s been a long enough time since he’s bottomed for it to hurt, even though Arthur has been taking his time. He doesn’t complain though, doesn’t ask for Arthur to stop or shy away from rolling his hips back on Arthur’s hand as much as he can without shifting his knees. He wants it. He wants to take it. But Arthur doesn’t force the finger in, instead his shifts and Eames feels Arthur’s other hand tangling into his hair, pulling his head up forcefully off of the bed. Once Eames is up on his arms, Arthur lets his head go and it sags forward as Arthur trails his hand down Eames’ spine.  
  
“Wider.” Arthur commands when the path of his hand finally reaches Eames’ legs. He taps the insides of Eames’ thighs to reiterate his point. Eames obediently spreads his knees farther. The sheets displace, spreading tight underneath him to bunch as his skin drags over the surface. The position opens him up more, making it easier as Arthur continues to finger him open. He hears Arthur uncap the lube again, feels the coldness of it as Arthur pours it over his gloved fingers and onto his arse a moment later. Then Arthur tries again. The third finger presses in with the others. Arthur pushes lightly, and then pulls back, then pushes again. He gradually stretches Eames’ muscle to accommodate his fingertip, patiently waiting until Eames’ body relaxes enough and gives in. It takes time, time where Arthur continues to ignore Eames’ cock but massages comforting circles over the rest of his skin.

 

 

  


  
Eames groans out a string of, “Oh, oh, oh,” when Arthur’s finger is finally able to slip inside. He feels so stretched, split on Arthur’s fingers.  
  
“That’s a good boy,” Arthur whispers to him as his hand stills, waiting for Eames’ body to adjust. Then, by millimeters, Arthur starts to move again. Eames grunts as the motion increases. His legs shake, small nervous shivers as he forces himself to relax.  
  
They continue like this until Eames is sweating, until his arms feels weak and he’s rocking back onto Arthur’s fingers mindlessly. He pants, head lolling against his shoulders restlessly, too heavy to hold up. Arthur continues to praise occasionally, his other hand never ceasing its warm petting over the naked expanse of Eames’ skin. When Arthur’s hand stops massaging him and finds its way to his hip, holding him still from rocking back onto Arthur’s fingers, Eames’ eyes blearily open. The room looks bright, glowing around the edges as the lamplight reflects off of the walls. He doesn’t know why Arthur has stopped, and he wants desperately to continue.  
  
Leaning down and whispering kisses to the line of Eames spine, Arthur asks, “Do you think you can take another?” Eames doesn’t understand what he means at first; all he can think about is Arthur’s fingers still inside him and how he wants them to  bloody move . Arthur flexes his fingers apart to get Eames’ attention and Eames grunts in slight discomfort. “Eames, do you think you can take another?” Arthur repeats.  
  
Eames nods, his head mindlessly bobbing up and down. His shoulder blades feel like they’re trying to shed from his own skin, like he’s trapped in a cocoon, aching for release. He’s hot all over and his muscles yearn to break from their fixed position. He doesn’t care about another finger, so long as Arthur lets him move, lets him work himself on Arthur’s fingers until he comes onto the sheets. He can take more. He will.  
  
Arthur pours more lube onto his glove and slowly presses his small finger to Eames’ hole, stretching Eames slowly. It hurts more this time. Even with the gradual pressure, the same time given to stretch Eames as before, it’s not enough. And with regretful realization, Eames thinks he might not be able to take it after all. The thought nearly causes him sob in despair, but he chokes it down, gritting his teeth to wait until the finger finally slides in.  
  
Arthur never forces it and Eames whimpers with frustration every time he feels Arthur’s probing press withdraw. Arthur tries to console him, to calm him down. “It’s okay,” Arthur repeats, “Patience,” he says, but his words do nothing to assuage Eames’ tension. He is so desperate to come, so desperate for more. “Please, please,” Eames begs, barely aware of the words escaping under his breath. “Arthur, please.”  
  
This is the moment he knows he’s fucked. Arthur has him vulnerable and begging, instead of running away, of escaping before he reveals too much of himself, Eames can only demand more. He doesn’t care what he looks like, what Arthur thinks of him, how Arthur has control of him and will forever know what it takes to make him lose control. He just wants more.  
  
Arthur adjusts behind him, shuffling on his knees to come around to Eames’ side. His fingers still work themselves inside Eames’ arse, curling inside on the off strokes. His other hand trails over Eames’ ribs and down his stomach until it finds its way between his legs. Eames hisses at the touch of Arthur’s glove. It feels cool and dry against his flushed and straining cock. Arthur’s fingers wrap around him lightly and stroke down and up once. He pauses as his fingers circle the glans, still half sheathed inside Eames’ foreskin. Arthur’s other hand slows its pace, only pressing in shallowly as he plays his thumb over this slit of Eames’ cock. The action forces a breathy exhale from Eames and Arthur tightens his fist around him. Arthur pulls his foreskin back, his thumb continuing to stroke tantalizing circles, picking up precome and smearing it along Eames’ prick. Eames whimpers when the fingers on Arthur’s other hand twist and then curl down inside of him.  
  
“I want you to focus right here,” Arthur says as he squeezes Eames’ cock just hard enough for discomfort. Eames’ hips reflexively pull away from it and he bites at his bottom lip in frustration. “But don’t come, understand?” It’s just pressure, useless pressure and no friction. Eames hums, low in his throat, shoulders sagging, tired from holding his weight and sweat trickling down his spine.  “Understand?”  Arthur says more forcefully.  
  
“Yes,” Eames huffs out, nodding his head heavily. He breathes through his nose to gather himself, sucking in enough to stretch his lungs and then letting it out slowly. It clears his head a little, relieving the restlessness, the anxiety that had been building from not being able to move. Eames’ wrists are starting to ache and his fingers tingle from disuse. He wiggles them to keep the blood flowing and bends his elbows to relieve the joints.  
  
Arthur twists his wrist, fingers sliding along Eames’ shaft, and it’s just enough movement to send a trill of pleasure through Eames. The sensation melts over him, bleeding the tension from his muscles and suddenly Eames isn’t thinking about the need to move. He’s only thinking about the way that Arthur’s fingers feel as they press into his body and the way his hand wraps around his cock.  
  
Arthur releases him to reach for the lube again. With one hand he pops the cap open and messily pours it over his glove, heedless of spilling it on the bed sheets. Then, with the slick still cold and pooled onto his palm, Arthur grips Eames again and begins to stroke slowly, so slowly, barely movement at all.  
  
Eames should be used to the pace; it’s the same that Arthur has used the entire night. He’s unhurried and teasing. Eames’ hips start to follow Arthur’s movement when his strokes begin to lengthen. Arthur’s glove slides along his skin, wet and smooth. As Arthur picks up the pace, his other fingers begin to pump more forcefully inside him. Eames can relish the sensation now; can let it wash over him. He rocks his hips forward into Arthur’s grip, then back onto Arthur’s hand. Each endpoint to the pendulum of his body’s movement delivers delicious pleasure.  
  
Keeping the slow pace, Arthur tightens his hold on Eames’ cock. Eames moans openly and has to keep his elbows from buckling beneath him. Arthur curls his fingers again, circling over Eames’ prostate, and he pumps Eames’ cock steadily. Eames can feel his orgasm start to build. It’s small at first, a bleeding heat just below his balls. But it grows with every stroke of Arthur’s hand over him. Eames’ eyes have slipped closed and every once in a while he sees a burst of white at the edges of his blackened vision.  
  
Arthur presses with his fourth finger again, trying the same method to loosen him up as before. It’s a background sensation at this point, though. Eames is doing as he has been told and concentrating on his cock. The need to come is becoming more urgent, and if he’s not careful he will. Eames’ moans become broken gasps. On a carefully timed stroke, where Arthur’s fingertips squeeze lightly over the head of Eames’ cock, Arthur works the last finger into his arse. Eames is too focused on the unexpected over-stimulation to tense up at the stretch. His vision is white starbursts as his eyes pinch shut and his blood flushes hot from his neck to his ears.  
  
Eames whimpers, panting staccato song notes into the quiet room until his breath comes back. “Oh, bloody fuck,” he gasps out once he regains the ability to maintain thought. Gloved fingertips brush over the curve of his ear. Arthur’s is petting his hair and playing over the nape of his neck.  He’s probably getting lube in it , Eames thinks for an insane moment because his mind is a mess and everything inside of it is fighting for dominance but none are succeeding.  
  
Eames seriously considers stopping. It’s almost too much. His erection flags as Arthur’s fingers feel more than a little uncomfortable inside him. The calm he had gained just moments ago is completely lost but, like with everything tonight, Arthur doesn’t rush him. Arthur waits, holding still inside of Eames patiently until Eames can recover enough to articulate that Arthur may continue. It feels like a small eternity before Eames thinks he can move. He pushes back onto Arthur’s hand experimentally.  
  
Arthur holds steady, not moving his hand, allowing Eames to set his own depth and pace. When Eames is feeling comfortable enough to rock forward more, sliding Arthur’s fingers almost completely out before pushing back to bury them inside again, Arthur takes back control. He grasps Eames cock, stroking him until he’s hard and needy and moaning again.  
  
Eames loses himself as Arthur works him over. He lets himself ride Arthur’s hand, lets the gloves on his skin and the slick slide over his cock become the only thing of importance. Sweating and close to coming, he needs something more. Eames doesn’t know exactly what that is until Arthur is kissing his shoulder and murmuring, “You can come for me now,” into his skin. Arthur’s fingers crook to make his point and something warm unfolds in Eames’ chest when Arthur gives him permission. It’s instant relief, an end to holding himself back. It’s a release to the constant thoughts of  not yet, not yet, that he hadn’t realized were buzzing so loudly in his head. With a few solid strokes Eames is coming all over Arthur’s pretty glove. His arse clenches over Arthur’s fingers. His muscles flutter spasmodically and his mind becomes blissfully blank as his orgasm shakes through him.  
  
When Eames has spilled himself completely, over-sensitively twitching into Arthur’s hand, Arthur pulls his fingers free. Eames collapses onto the bed, elbows finally giving out, and he rolls to his side. His breathing is shallow and heavy and it feels as if he’s just been hit with a small dose of morphine.  
  
Eames doesn’t think he’s ever come so hard in his life.  
  
Arthur brings his semen-soiled hand to Eames’ mouth and Eames sucks at the fingers without thinking. He can taste his seed on the leather and eagerly licks it clean. It’s sloppy, too much spit and not enough coordination, but Eames gets every last bit. His mind is just beginning to unfog by the time Arthur is pulling his fingers away; his glove is glossy wet. He unsnaps the button at his wrist and begins to peel them off, just as precise and careful as always, as he wiggles his fingers free.  
  
Eames watches through half-lidded eyes. He’s fascinated with how extraordinarily beautiful the simple task of Arthur putting away the bottle of lube seems to him as he admires the angle of Arthur’s body leaning over to deposit it into the bed-table’s drawer. Arthur’s gloves lie on the covers next to Eames’ head. When Arthur turns around his lips quirk up as if he’s just seen something he’s fond of and Eames wonders what he looks like right now.  Like a satiated cat , he settles on as he stretches over the bed. He very nearly lives up to the description when Arthur’s naked, warm, and slightly sweat-damp hands rub up his side. It makes him hum in contented pleasure. Arthur slides both palms up Eames’ chest slowly, over his nipples and to his shoulders, lowering his own body down as he makes his way higher. His hands wrap in Eames’ hair and he’s pressed to Eames’ naked chest as he captures Eames’ lips in a kiss. The slide of Arthur’s tongue against his own sends a ball of warmth to settle beneath Eames’ ribcage and he thinks that this is the best part of the night, kissing Arthur, relaxed, unhurried and so sweet.  
  
That may just be the dopamine making him feel this way, but he doesn’t care. At the moment, everything is perfect. Arthur breaks the kiss by pecking Eames short and sweet on the lips several times. It’s as if he doesn’t want to stop kissing, but then he says, “I have to clean these before they’re ruined,” and he levers himself off of Eames, grabs the gloves and heads to the washroom. Eames frowns as he watches Arthur retreat. He hears the faucet turn on a moment later. The air starts to cool Eames’ skin and his eyes slip shut. He feels loose and languid and content.  
  
Eames doesn’t hear the water turn off, or Arthur come out of the washroom. He doesn’t hear Arthur get undressed, or set the alarm, or check the locks on the front door. Eames doesn’t wake until Arthur kneels on the bed and pushes him to roll over. Reluctant and sleepy, Eames grumbles but turns, feeling the sheets move beneath him as Arthur tries to pull them back. He shifts to let them loose. Arthur is warm, solid heat behind him when he lies down and draws the covers up. Wiry arms wrap around Eames’ body and fold across his chest.  
  
He smells cucumber and aloe, probably from Arthur’s soap or lotion, and it’s unnervingly pleasant. Being here in Arthur’s bed is nice. Eames doesn’t usually do this. A prickle of insecurity crawls along his spine and he feels himself tense as his mind fights through his exhaustion to come back online. His eyes come open, and Arthur must feel him stiffen because his arms grow tighter and he mouths between Eames’ shoulder blades reassuringly. Eames closes his eyes again purposefully and concentrates on breathing. He drifts back to sleep with Arthur’s breath on the back of his neck.  
  
Eames wakes in the morning to the smell of rich coffee. The sun is bright, blindingly so as it slips through the gap in the curtains. The bed sheets are tangled, wrapped around his legs as they were a net and he some fisherman’s poor prey. Kicking them off, Eames sits up on his elbows, taking inventory of the room. His clothes are folded atop the dresser and Arthur’s gloves lie on the bedside table, drying.  
  
Looking at them makes Eames’ skin feel tight, tension creeping back into his system. He imagines what he must have looked like last night. It was a brilliantly stupid move on his part, getting Arthur to sleep with him this way, and he wonders when to expect it to come back to bite him. Eames was too distracted by the intoxication of something new. He shouldn't have shown vulnerability like that, not to Arthur. With the way Arthur remembers things, catalogues them, Eames is certain it will become ammunition. He can picture now, the way Arthur’s face will shift knowingly when they argue and the look in his eyes that will express exactly what leverage he has on Eames.  
  
Eames rubs his hands over his face in sleepy frustration. When he drops them back down, Arthur is just entering the room. He’s shirtless and in black and white plaid pajama pants, carrying a coffee mug and a single orange. His hair is sleep mussed, an unruly crop of deep brown curls. “Here,” Arthur says as he offers the mug to Eames. Eames takes the mug but waves off the fruit. “We can get breakfast if you want.” Arthur smiles and tosses the orange back and forth between his hands cheerfully.  
  
“Hmm,” Eames deflects, and it must come across more derisive than he had meant because Arthur’s face falls and he catches the fruit, dropping his fist to his side. When Eames looks up at him from the bed, Arthur looks stricken and he watches as several emotions flash quickly across his face. Arthur’s lips flatten in consternation.  
  
“Look,” Arthur says, “This doesn’t have to mean anything.” He fidgets and Eames eyes are drawn to his hand as he runs his thumb over the peel of the orange. “I enjoyed last night; I believe you did as well. We can leave it at that and forget about it.”  
  
The way he says  forget , a heavy puff of air as if he’s trying very hard to control any inflection creeping into his voice, tells Eames that his apprehension was misplaced. He’s embarrassed to have thought Arthur would ever compromise him like that. But trust doesn’t come easy, not for a thief like himself, not even with people who’ve proven themselves. And Arthur has proven himself over the years Eames has known and worked with him. It’s part of the reason he found Arthur so alluring in the first place. On some level he wanted to break Arthur, to test how far Arthur’s loyalty could be stretched, leave him behind in the dust when he finally broke it. After Mal’s death that desire vanished. Arthur had stuck by Cobb through the worst of it. Eames doesn’t think he could do anything worse to Arthur than Cobb already had the two years they were on the run.  
  
“No, no. I’m sorry,” he says as he sets the coffee mug on the bedside table. “I didn’t mean … I’m just not used to …” Eames sighs, running his fingertips over the sheets absently. He’s not used to being at a loss for words. He’s not used to being invited to stay, to waking up in someone else’s bed, to finding that he wants to stay. Arthur watches him warily from the end of the bed. Eames looks up and tries to convey an apology. “Breakfast sounds great.”  
  
Arthur eyes him skeptically for another moment. His weight shifts, then he sets the orange down on the bottom of the bed as he sits on the edge of the mattress. His back is a gentle curve accented with bony ridges. Eames wants to reach out and touch each knob of Arthur’s spine, to trace the line of his ribs. He realizes, belatedly, that this is the first he’s seen Arthur unclothed and he hasn’t even been in the right frame of mind to appreciate it.  
  
Arthur looks younger without his suit, with his hair unstyled and the sun reflecting off of his pale skin. Turning to look at him, Eames catches something soft again in Arthur’s expression. He twists his body and reaches for Eames’ face, cupping Eames’ cheek in his hand. When he leans forward it is hesitant, as if he’s waiting for Eames’ permission and when he asks, “Is this okay?” Eames nods and closes the gap. Arthur’s lips are soft and his mouth tastes like coffee and toothpaste.  
  
This kiss is brief and when Arthur pulls away he does that thing again where he pecks a quick succession of kisses before looking Eames in the eyes. “I’ve wanted to do that for a while now, but you’re always such an ass. Do you know how many times I’ve put off sleeping with you because someone mentioned we just needed to fuck already and get it over with?”  
  
Eames barks out a laugh. That confession was not expected at all. “What changed your mind?” He asks.  
  
“You looked so lost these last few days. If I knew all it took was a pair of gloves to throw you off your game, I would have worn them ages ago.” Arthur smiles and his dimples deepen. The sunlight filtering into the room brightens his eyes, highlights the bits of gold and green flecked throughout his irises. Eames should feel embarrassed, rankled by Arthur pointing out his flaws. Usually he would.  
  
“So you were waiting for the upper-hand?”  
  
“Apparently that is exactly what I needed,” Arthur says as he wiggles his fingers in front of him. Eames snorts and stretches his arms over his head, sticking his chest out with a yawn.  
  
“Hmm, indeed. So what now?”  
  
“Now? Breakfast.” Arthur leans back against Eames’ knees, draping his arm over them with his fingers sweeping over the inside of Eames’ thigh through the sheets. “Then we debrief with Colin and Elliot for the grab tomorrow.”  
  
“It’s always work with you, you tight-arse.” Eames shifts his knees so that Arthur falls back. He watches as Arthur’s stomach muscles flex to keep him balanced.  
  
“Not always,” Arthur says as he recovers, his hand sliding down to cup Eames’ groin.  
  
“Cheeky,” Eames laughs as he pushes up into the touch.  
  
Arthur leans over, his hand stroking Eames through the sheets. He kisses Eames and his hair falls against his forehead. “Breakfast,” he says. His lips press harder on the  B sound.  
  
Eames groans when Arthur’s hand pulls away. “May I at least shower first?” He asks.  
  
“Of course,” Arthur says. When Eames pulls back the sheets and stands, Arthur leans back onto his elbows. “Mind if I join you?”  
  
“Not at all.” Eames looks back over his shoulder and wiggles his butt. Arthur laughs, but quickly shoves off of the bed and follows him out into the washroom. They only end up twenty minutes late to the briefing despite the long shower and the argument that ensues when Eames emphatically refuses to wear Arthur’s only helmet again.  
  
Eames notices that Arthur doesn’t wear the gloves in the office, but that fact doesn’t make him less interested in watching Arthur. Now he knows what Arthur’s face looks like when he comes. He knows the shape of his cock, the taste of his come, the feel of Arthur’s thighs strong and warm beneath his fingers. Eames has to sit through the entire debrief thinking about how it felt to run his wet hands up Arthur’s soapy body as they crowded into the narrow bathtub.  
  
The grab is tomorrow, though, and they have last minute preparations to take care of. This keeps Arthur nearly the entire night, tying up loose ends, confirming that their access to the spa won’t be compromised, and securing the bribes. Eames goes to bed alone, his fist and a short shower his only relief for the day.  
  
Barring the delay when their former point was fired, the job goes perfectly. It’s a testament to Arthur’s skill that he managed to not only salvage but improve the job in only three weeks. Eames is nearly regretful for how smoothly everything goes.  
  
He’s sitting in the dream wishing he were playing a wife or a mistress or something other than a buttoned-up business partner, because then he would at least get to flirt. He tries not to think of Arthur who is topside watching over the team as they lie across the floor in the cozy little oil and lotion scented room. It’s difficult for Eames to pay attention as Mr. Ruotolo rambles on about the direction of the company and profit margins and market growth. His Italian isn’t one hundred percent fluent (which is why he decides on a forge that is supposed to listen instead of speak) but it’s good enough for him to be bored out of his skull.  Just half an hour more, he reminds himself while nodding gravely as Ruotolo laments the grim state of the current economy in a drawn out tirade.  Not dire enough for you to skip you weekly massages, Eames thinks as he spoons another mouthful of gnocchi into his mouth. The man loves to talk.  
  
He sees Colin glide through the aisle of the restaurant, giving a little nod to no one in particular, confident that Eames will see the confirmation of their success. Eames could have guessed. The projections have been docile, the architecture stable. Not that he had been expecting anything else, but a job does seem so much less interesting without any drama. He idly wonders what Ruotolo would think of his colleague if he were to excuse himself to the restroom and not return. There’s still twenty minutes to go. He could probably have a good wank in the loo before time runs out. He’s not exactly sure he won’t wake up with an erection if he does. Not for the first time he wonders how anyone can tolerate their mark for more than five minutes as he realizes he’s seriously thinking about jerking off in the middle of a job instead of listening to the man prattle on mundanely.  
  
Eames would like nothing more than to for this dream to end so that he can take Arthur back to his hotel to be fucked. Maybe he could shoot himself out — fuck the headache; he has aspirin in his bag. He decides to stick it out because he’s a professional. Also, he doesn’t want to look over-eager or impatient (though he is) and waits for the Somnacin dose to run out.  
  
His eyes drift open to the abrasive melody of some annoying pop rock song (Colin’s choice) and his grimace only melts away when he sees Arthur checking the mark’s vitals. His arse is in perfect view from Eames’ position on the floor.  Arthur has to be doing that on purpose,  he muses. Eames blinks as Arthur turns around, and smiles when Arthur kneels to help remove the PASIV line from his wrist. His hands are gloved again, though probably just to avoid leaving prints rather than for any ulterior motive, and Eames has to stop himself from biting his lip in an obvious way because Colin and Elliot are already pushing up from the floor and spooling their lines back into a neat pile to be packed up.  
  
“I have some things to take care of, but you should meet me at my place,” Arthur says as he slips Eames a single key.  
  
“But then I don’t get the joy of riding on your scooter,” Eames jokingly murmurs back. Arthur rolls his eyes and stows the IV line back into the silver case, clicking the lid shut. His gloves squeak on the handle and Eames tongues along his own teeth to keep his reaction to that sound from showing.  
  
Eames takes a cab back to Arthur’s place. He smirks when he gives the driver the address, realizing that Arthur has never told him, has assumed he would know anyways. Eames does, and he wonders if it’s a bad thing that Arthur seems to know him so well. The drive there is different from inside the carriage of a car. It’s bright out, friendly even. The neighborhoods drift past in a blur as the driver navigates the streets.  
  
There’s a café on the end of Arthur’s street and Eames has the cab drop him off there so that he can pick up a light meal. He doesn’t know how long it will take Arthur to finish clearing out and it’s well past lunch. Eames had cleared his items out of the workspace yesterday, but Arthur had too many files and will be disposing of all he couldn’t part with earlier.  
  
After eating, Eames walks up the block to Arthur’s doorstep. He thinks of breaking in, just for the challenge and fun of it in broad daylight, but doesn’t because there is something to be said for a man handing over the key to his point of refuge. Temporary or not, this is Arthur’s sanctuary, and he’s trusting Eames with it. So Eames slides the key into the lock and lets himself inside normally. He toes his shoes off in the entryway and throws his jacket across the back of the sofa. Eames only feels a little guilty about snooping around. Arthur does know him after all. He has to have realized Eames would look. He studies people for a living after all.  
  
This place is not a hotel, but it’s also not a home. Finding the little details that indicate the difference make Eames feel all the more privileged at being let in. This is more than he’s ever been allowed to see from Arthur, from his private life. There’s a set of books on the table by the couch that he didn’t catch before. It’s a mixture of non-fiction, fantasy novels and one well-worn copy of Neuromancer.  
  
Eames smiles to himself, picturing Arthur as a teen, reading about cyberspace and a dystopian future; fantasizing living in a world where men can plug themselves in and walk through information like city streets. They practically live that life now. Yusuf is the closest thing to The Finn he’s ever come across, with his underground dealings in everything dreamshare related. The streets of Mombasa are no less dangerous than the back alleys of Gibson’s Sprawl.  
  
Arthur’s bedroom is sparse. There’s more to it than he had observed two nights ago, but not much. There’s no hidden box of sex toys (much to Eames’ disappointment) and not much in the dresser drawers besides socks and undershirts. There is a closet full of suits, two pairs of dress shoes and a set of trainers, and a photograph that is hidden in the lining of Arthur’s suitcase. It’s a woman, obviously Arthur’s mother, with peppered gray hair and Arthur’s eyes. She seems young in the photo, her smile bright and genuine as if she has been caught in the middle of laughing. Eames’ mouth quirks to the side in a small frown. Arthur is well aware of how dangerous it is to keep personal items on jobs, especially something that can be used against him so readily; a family member, a point of weakness, someone to threaten.  
  
Eames tucks the photo away with a sense of unease at having seen it and moves on. The medicine cabinet is nearly empty, as is the refrigerator and cabinets. It’s obvious Arthur mostly eats out. After giving the apartment a once over, he settles onto the sofa and picks up the Gibson novel. Flipping to a random page, he starts reading, making it through three chapters before he hears the front door click open.  
  
Arthur enters, shedding his jacket and setting his bag on the floor by the door. He turns to flip the lock and then walks into the sitting room, draping the jacket across the back of a chair. Eames closes the book without bothering to mark the page, letting it rest on his lap. His attention is completely focused on Arthur and the way Arthur moves into the room. Arthur’s gloves are still on and he loosens his tie with one hand. He’s gazing at Eames steadily.  
  
There’s an air of expectation, a tension creeping in around the edges of the room like a cool fog. Eames sits very still and waits. Arthur is the first to break the silence. “Do you have another job after this?” he asks, removing his tie-pin and placing it in his pocket.  
  
“I don’t,” Eames replies. He places the book back on the table and folds his hands in his lap, trying not to fiddle his fingers anxiously.  
  
Arthur nods then says, “There’s a contract in Bern I’ve been considering. We could use a forger.”  
  
Eames was trying not to fidget, but he can’t fight the urge to drag his thumbnail across his lower lip. “Arthur, are you asking me to join you?” His heart beats a little faster when Arthur steps closer, until he’s looming above Eames in an imitation to their position two nights ago.  
  
“That’s exactly what I’m asking,” Arthur says. He looks so fucking calm, so at ease as he stands there. Eames uncrosses the foot he has draped over one knee and sits forward until he’s inches away from Arthur’s waist. He’s drawn to Arthur, wanting to touch, knowing he’s not allowed, not yet.  
  
“What’s the payoff?” He asks as he tilts his head up.  
  
“Does it matter?” Arthur answers with a smile. He reaches out to trace the ridge of Eames’ ear, which is ticklish and makes Eames’ eyes drift closed and the muscles in his neck tense as he tries to suppress a larger reaction.  
  
“No, I suppose it doesn’t,” he says. Defiantly, Eames brings his hands up to Arthur’s hips, resting them along the curve of his hipbone beneath the fabric of his trousers. Arthur places his hand on Eames’ chest and pushes him back into the chair. Eames tilts his head to the side in question, but Arthur only gives him a playful look as an answer. Then, sinking to the floor in one easy movement, Arthur sets a hand on each of Eames’ knees and spreads his legs. His thumbs drag up Eames’ inseam as he slides his hands forward until they hit the junctions of Eames’ hips.  
  
The move has forced Arthur to lean forward and he works one hand up across Eames’ stomach, pulling his shirt free from his waistband. Arthur bunches the fabric out of his way as he leans down to kiss at Eames’ stomach. His throat is pressed to Eames’ groin and Eames can feel it when Arthur swallows. When Arthur pulls back, he starts to unbutton his gloves. He gives a sharp look when Eames pouts a little, so Eames schools his face into placidity as Arthur removes the leather from his hands. He doesn’t need the gloves to enjoy this. Arthur is on his knees before him and he’s thought about this enough that it feels like he might be dreaming it.  
  
Arthur starts to unfasten Eames’ belt, pulling the buckle free and unbuttoning the fly of Eames’ trousers. He slowly pulls the zipper down and the pressure on Eames’ erection eases. There’s a damp spot on his underwear where he’s already leaking and Arthur bends down to mouth at it. His mouth is hot through the fabric. Eames sucks in a breath and lets it out gradually.  
  
Wasting no more time, Arthur pulls the elastic of Eames’ briefs down to release his cock. He grips it with a warm hand. It feels wonderful, skin on skin, with nothing interfering with the touch: no gloves, no clothes, and no water. Eames groans when Arthur shifts his hand up and down, gliding the foreskin along his shaft. He moves his grip to the top, near the frenulum, and pulls Eames’ skin back from the glans. Eames watches as Arthur’s mouth parts with the movement. It’s an unconscious reaction; Arthur is focused on Eames’ cock, not realizing Eames is watching him.  
  
His head starts to dip forward and Arthur is taking Eames’ cock into his mouth before Eames can properly process the movement. His mouth is hot and wet, all sucking pressure and dancing tongue. He works himself down Eames’ shaft incrementally, starting with only wetting the tip with his mouth, then taking in more with each bob of his head. His fingers ring lightly around the base of Eames’ cock.  
  
Eames wants to grab Arthur’s head, tangle his fingers in his beautiful, dark hair, and fuck up into his mouth. Arthur plants his other hand on Eames’ chest as if anticipating this reaction. It’s not holding Eames down, but it’s a firm reminder for him to stay in his place. Eames knows that he is not supposed to touch Arthur unless he’s given permission. Eames digs his fingers into the padding of the couch cushion to keep them under control.  
  
Arthur is bloody brilliant at sucking cock. He keeps rhythm perfectly until just the right moment where he takes Eames all the way down and holds. His throat is tight and convulsing as he swallows around Eames. Eames can’t seem to keep his hips from following Arthur when he pulls back. They buck up haltingly and Arthur’s hands immediately go to pin his pelvis down.  
  
Arthur starts to suck him down again. His fingers dig into Eames’ skin. The pace holds steady for a few minutes and soon Eames feels his orgasm building. His breath comes faster and his hips fight beneath Arthur’s hold.  
  
“Arthur,” he groans in warning as he very nearly comes. Arthur stops sucking, his lips wrapped tightly around Eames as one hand flies to the base of Eames’ cock and squeezes it tight. Staving off the orgasm, Arthur looks up at Eames through his lashes. His lips are red and swollen, wrapped in an O around Eames’ cock. His pupils are dark and his cheeks are flushed.  
  
Arthur starts to bob his head again after a moment. His cheeks hollow as his tongue goes flat and drags up Eames’ cock. He swirls around the glans, tonguing at the slit. Then he takes Eames back down again until the tip hits the back of his throat, which makes him swallow around it in pulsing waves.  
  
Arthur sets a quick pace until Eames is about to come and he cuts Eames’ orgasm off again. It’s the second time Eames has been on the edge and he lets out an anguished curse as his cock twitches in Arthur’s hand. Once Eames is done spasming uselessly into the air, Arthur starts again. It’s torturous as he brings Eames to the brink two more times, each near-orgasm coming shorter in between as Eames becomes more sensitive. By the time Arthur has him on the cusp of his fifth, Eames is a shivering mess. His clothes are damp and clinging to his skin, stained darker at the pits of his arms. He whimpers as his body rebels against Arthur’s hold.  
  
When the crest of orgasm recedes, Arthur lets his hips go. He brings his hands to Eames’ face. Leaning forward, Arthur kisses him forcefully, his tongue suppressing the last of Eames’ uncontrollable noises. His hands wrap in Eames’ hair and he pulls Eames forward. Eames struggles to follow as Arthur first sits him up and then urges him to stand. Eames’ legs feel rubbery as Arthur leads him to the bedroom.  
  
When they enter, Arthur gently starts to strip Eames down. He’s attentive, sucking at the hollow of Eames’ neck when he unbuttons his shirt, and stroking down Eames’ arms when he pulls it off. His touch is lingering, reverent, as if he’s trying to memorize Eames’ body as he reveals the every last stretch of Eames’ skin. The process is markedly different from before, more relaxed but with no less expectation. Arthur still guides Eames’ every move, though he’s not being especially forceful about it. All he has to do is hint at what he desires Eames to do and Eames does it.  
  
Once Eames is completely stripped, Arthur guides him to the bed, laying him down on his back. Eames watches from the bed as Arthur strips. He’s careful with his buttons, with not stretching out his shirt, but he tosses his clothes to the side without seeming bothered by the mess. As Arthur gather’s the lube and condom from the table drawers, Eames enjoys the sight of him. He takes in the flat plane of Arthur’s stomach and the dark hair the dusts his navel and chest. Arthur’s cock stands hard away from his body, curving slightly to the left. The tip of his prick is already flushed red.  
  
After gathering the supplies, Arthur crawls onto the bed. He leans over Eames’ body and presses a kiss to the center of his chest, just above his heart, as he pushes Eames’ legs wider to settle between them. Popping the lid, Arthur sits back on his heels and begins to slick up his fingers. He pushes Eames’ knees back to trace a wet finger over Eames’ arsehole before slowly pushing it in. Eames hums with pleasure, even though he’s tenser than is strictly necessary. Arthur takes his time to work Eames open. He starts with one, and then adds two, then three fingers. All the while, Arthur strokes Eames’ cock lazily.  
  
When three fingers become easy, Arthur’s pace speeds up. He jerks Eames steadily while curling his fingers up inside. It’s not long at all before Eames is about to come but like before, Arthur grips him tight and cuts the orgasm off. Eames’ voice pitches high, a panicky, frustrated whine tearing through him as his body is racked with tiny convulsions.  
  
Arthur gentles him with a soothing voice, keeping his hands perfectly still as Eames slowly comes back down. Arthur pulls his fingers free to grab the condom. He unwraps it and rolls it onto his own cock, slicking it with lube immediately. Once it’s on, Arthur leans over Eames’ body and kisses him deeply. His tongue searches inside Eames’ mouth, licking along his teeth and along the hard palate. He holds his cock right at Eames’ entrance and circles the tip of it around Eames’ pink ring of muscle. He nudges at Eames’ hole, sliding his cock up and down teasingly.  
  
Eames is so worked up, so ready for it that he can’t help but gasp out, “Arthur, please!” He finishes off with a drawn out, “Oh, God,” when Arthur pushes in. Two days he has been waiting for this, waiting to be fucked properly. It’s everything he could have hoped for as Arthur sits back, grips his thighs for leverage and thrusts into him steadily, only pausing to reposition until the angle is just right and Eames is moaning, “There. Don’t stop, right there.”  
  
His body feels like it’s coming apart around Arthur, every snap of Arthur’s hips has him gasping. He’s filled by it. The thickness of Arthur’s cock as it slides in and out of him, the pressure as it glances along his prostate; he’s so worked up, so sensitive, that he doesn’t know whether to push back or pull away. Arthur leans back down to drive in harder and Eames’ hands find their way to Arthur’s shoulders and he holds on with bruising pressure as he lets Arthur take what he wants from him.  
  
Eames needs to come immediately; it feels as if his skin will peel away leaving his nerves raw and exposed if he doesn’t. He itches for it. He wants desperately to reach down clutch himself in his own hand as Arthur fucks him. So it’s perfect when Arthur reaches between their bodies and wraps his partially slick hand around Eames’ cock and pulls.  
  
Arthur doesn’t explicitly say that Eames is allowed to come yet, but Eames can’t help it when his body jerks and his orgasm rips through him. There was no chance of him controlling it, not after being brought to the edge so many times. He feels himself clench around Arthur’s cock as his prick spasms and spills across his flexing stomach. Arthur doesn’t stop thrusting into him, but he slows down as he wrings the last of Eames’ orgasm from his body. Eames is shaking and panting and noises are coming out of him that he has never heard himself make before. It’s almost too intense, but Arthur is there, he’s rubbing a hand up Eames’ body and thrusting slowly and saying, “Yes, Eames. Beautiful, fucking beautiful!”  
  
Eames whimpers when the oversensitivity starts to become painful and Arthur lets him go. His cock lays in the mess on his stomach as Arthur continues to thrust. It takes a few minutes for Eames to stabilize, until he feels like he has control over his body again. When his mind clears, Eames reaches down to his hip, cupping his hand over the one Arthur is holding there. Arthur’s fingers intertwine with his own and his other rubs comfortingly along his thigh.  
  
“You okay?” Arthur asks, his hips drive forward and he pauses when he’s buried completely inside. He circles his hips around. Eames hums. “Is it okay if I keep going, or do you need me to stop?”  
  
Eames’ tongue feels heavy and his throat rough, but he manages to get out gruff, “No, don’t … I mean please. Please keep going.”  
  
Arthur smiles. He places both of his hands at Eames’ sides and bends down to kiss him again. His back is a smooth arc underneath Eames’ hands as he slides them up Arthur’s body. Arthur starts to thrust in again and his movements become faster and faster until he breaks the kiss in order to breathe heavily against Eames’ lips. The slap of skin on skin is loud and Arthur starts to let out pleased grunts as he drives himself into Eames’ body. Eames’ cock is going soft and it bounces limply on his stomach. Arthur’s pace starts pick up as his orgasm nears. He starts to layer kisses over Eames’ jaw and cheek until he’s burying his face in Eames’ neck and biting at the soft skin.  
  
When he comes, Arthur’s breath is a hot gust of air across Eames’ throat. His whine is loud and musical and it feels like it harmonizes with something inside Eames’ chest. Like the thread of it intertwines with the arteries of his heart. Arthur’s hips stutter after a few more thrusts and he collapses onto Eames’ body.  
  
They lay that way until Arthur’s weight becomes uncomfortable. He looks much smaller than Eames, but he’s all muscle and not as slight as he appears. Eames pushes until Arthur leans back and pulls himself free of Eames’ body. They’re both sweaty and debauched and breathing hard.  
  
Arthur grimaces as he pulls the condom off and is off balance when he steps off the bed to go throw it away. He suddenly looks gangly and awkward and human. Eames realizes, right then, that this is the most he’s ever seen of Arthur, and he doesn’t mean just sexually. He’s seen what most people will never get to. Arthur has allowed him into his home. He’s seen things of Arthur’s that probably only Cobb has seen before, and even then, maybe not. And he wonders about Arthur’s intent behind that, what it’s all supposed to mean.  
  
Arthur comes back with a cup of water, which he hands to Eames. Eames takes down half of it in one go. As Eames drinks Arthur starts to gather his discarded clothing, folding it up and putting it away. He goes to the closet to hang his shirt and sees the suitcase on the floor. Eames had been careful to put things back as he found them, but Arthur must notice something different anyway because he stalls and then bends down to run his hands across the front. Then he opens the case and digs out the photograph.  
  
“Mother?” Eames asks tentatively. He doesn’t attempt to hide that he had been looking. That would be insulting to Arthur. This is new territory for him, however, and he doesn’t want Arthur to feel threatened that he knows, that he’s seen the picture. There was a time when Eames could have had threatening intentions toward Arthur, would stow away the knowledge for a rainy day later, but not now.  
  
“Yeah,” Arthur says sadly. “She died a couple months ago.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Eames says. He’s relieved that it’s not someone that can be used against Arthur anymore, which is selfish and shouldn’t be his first thought, but he can’t help it. He  is saddened by Arthur’s obvious heartache. He wants to wrap his arms around Arthur, to comfort him, to drive away the forlorn tone that has crept into Arthur’s voice. But he doesn’t know where he stands, if he is allowed to feel that way, to feel protective. Arthur has asked Eames to join him in Bern, but this could just be a fling. Then Eames stomach drops because he realizes that he doesn’t want this to just a fling.  
  
Eames has wanted Arthur for so long, and now that he has him, he doesn’t want to let that go. So he pushes off the bed and makes his way over to Arthur. He wraps his arms around Arthur’s shoulders and pulls him to his chest, resting his cheek against Arthur’s ear. Arthur leans back into the embrace, doesn’t pull away even though Eames’ stomach is a mess and his come slides between their bodies. They stand there for a while as Eames hold Arthur, until the mood changes and Arthur doesn’t seem so sad anymore. Arthur’s shoulders square and then he breaks the embrace to put the photo back. Turning when he stands back up, he kisses Eames and it’s relaxed and unhurried and sweet.  
  
“So … Bern?” Eames when they part. Arthur nods and stretches his arms over his head. Eames continues, “Have any plans after that?” It’s a question about the future, about his place in it. It’s also a statement that he’s willing to give more, hoping that Arthur wants that too.  
  
Arthur smiles, his dimples showing. “I was thinking of a vacation,” he says. He sucks his bottom lip in, biting it then releasing it. “I was kind of hoping you might join me for that too.”  
  
Eames grins and he quickly says, “Yeah. Yeah, I think I’m due for another vacation as well.” He reaches out to thumb over Arthur’s dimple and Arthur is unabashed by the gesture. He simply smiles wider.  
  
“I could use some dinner. Would you also care to join me on a date, Mr. Eames?”  
  
“There’s nothing I want more in the world, Arthur.” Eames kisses him again and thinks that it’s true. There’s nothing he wants more than to follow Arthur wherever he goes, for as long as Arthur will let him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to everyone who helped me out on this. My lovely betas [we-reflamingos](http://we-reflamingos.livejournal.com/), [anatsuno](http://anatsuno.dreamwidth.org) , [beanarie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/beanarie/), and [immoral-crow](http://immoral-crow.livejournal.com/)! You all are amazing! This story started out as a short fic for [bottledminx](http://bottledminx.livejournal.com/). I don't really know what happened, because it has so many words now! I hope you enjoy it bb!


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